The Point of No Return
by Operatastic SuperSop
Summary: [Title to change] Four years after Christine married Raoul, Raoul's dead, Raoul’s cousin moved to France and became the new patron...and Erik has returned with one final request, odd dreams, a new opera, and a hope for second chances. EC, COC
1. OG

_Revised Version_

**Disclaimer**: I don't anything from POTO, but for this chapter, I own Mrs. Chambers. This story is my own, as much as I can claim authorship, and came to me in a dream (yeah, it did). I don't own the music (Andrew Lloyd Webber's), either. Goes for whole story.

**Chapter 1**

**O.G. **

Mrs. Chambers answered the door of the De Chagny Estate.

"Hello? May I help you, sir?"

The man before her was dressed very darkly, the only light article of clothing being the white mask covering his face. At some point in her younger years, she might have been afraid, but being older and experienced (in more ways than one), she was able to compose herself.

"I am here to speak to the Vicomtess," the man replied hurriedly. Mrs. Chambers noted that he was shaking. "Is she available today?"

"She is, but she is with Miss Giry," she replied, a little puzzled by his oddity.

"I wish to see her alone. I am... an old friend of hers, and have much to speak with her about."

"I see. Well, who shall I say stopped by?"

He paused.

"Tell her that--that _O.G_. stopped by. She might remember."

"I see. Is that all, sir?"

He looked behind him, as though to check to see if anyone was there. He leaned in and practically whispered, "I hear that she is now without a husband?"

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Chambers replied sadly. "The Vicomte died only a few months ago. He had quite an illness. But what a resilient spirit! We all thought that he would make it. It is too bad that he had to die so young. His wife with child again, too!"

The man started at this information. "With child? Again? So, she has a child?"

"Yes," she sighed. "A beautiful little boy. He's about three now. He has the sweetest temperament, but he's highly intelligent for his age and asks many questions. He looks much like his mother—but he has his father's eyes."

The man became a little colder and twitched lightly; however, he held his composure.

"What is his name?"

"Frances. The countess wished to name him Erik for some time, but the Vicomte didn't like the name."

"What?" he said, startled. "What name did you say?"

"Erik," Mrs. Chambers said, frowning. "Any reason?"

"No, nothing, nothing," he muttered to himself.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." The man paused. "I won't trouble you any further." He stepped off the front steps.

"Oh, sir? What was the name you wished me to give?"

"O.G.," he replied firmly, and then continued down the steps. He began coughing heavily as he went.

Mrs. Chambers frowned as she watched him leave.

"What a strange man. I only hope it doesn't rain on him," Mrs. Chambers mumbled when he was out of hearing range, noting the cloudy sky above.


	2. Remembering The Past

_Revised Version_

**Chapter 2**

**Remembering the Past**

Christine, the countess of the De Chagny Estate, put down her cup of tea, smiling. It was the first time she had seen Meg since Raoul's death, and to her pleasant surprise, found that she had taken over Madame Giry's place in the opera, instructing ballet. Madame Giry had become the boxkeeper in the stead of a staff member who had mysteriously quit.

"That's wonderful," Christine replied, truly happy and excited for her. "When did you take over?"

"It was a little after you left. It kept me from missing you too much--but I still miss you terribly, of course! I'm so glad to find you well. I'm sorry I couldn't make the funeral. Things at the opera got very hectic, and I really felt guilty for not being there--"

"It's alright," she said emotionlessly, cutting her off mid-sentence. She didn't like to talk about Raoul's death very much. Where his love had filled her heart was a dreadful emptiness, which tempted her to think of the past.

"You know," she began again, "once I have my child—which is soon—I want to pursue my career in opera again. It is very boring to sit around here all day. That is all I've done ever since Raoul died."

"We'd be very glad to have you back," she said happily, her eyes lighting with child-like joy. After a few moments of happy silence, she hesitantly added, "Carlotta has not been easy to work with ever since...the accident, as you know."

Christine nodded solemnly.

Meg sipped her tea, looking at Christine. "Even before his death, she was unbearable. Afterwards, she became even worse."

Christine sat silently as Meg tried to smile. She knew Meg was trying to avoid the main subject, to keep her from thinking about it once again. It was too late, though—it had begun to happen the moment she mentioned the accident. Flashes of that night, first vaguely, but then clearly and crisply, and then too vividly, as though she was there at that present moment, passed through her mind.

Yes, Christine remembered that night perfectly. It was the one that haunted her every day in the back of her mind. The 'accident' they had been talking about had been Piangi's, which devastated Carlotta.

_Oh, that wretched night_! Christine thought. It was the night she chose Raoul and not the Phantom. The night Raoul and she got married. The night the Phantom killed Piangi. The last time she saw the Phantom, except in her dreams and in the shadows. The night she performed in Don Juan Triumphant as the leading role, and the Phantom assumed the role of Don Juan, since Piangi was indisposed, thanks to the work of a certain stray Punjab lasso. The night she kissed the Phantom and broke his heart once more, and more deeply. The night she never felt the same again. Oh, she had never been able to fully look Raoul in the eye without feeling a sense of shame or fear again, without seeing the Phantom hiding in the shadows, watching jealously, even though she was aware that she was probably just imagining him there. She was never able to sleep at night without a light to make her feel protected, as if a small candle would keep the Phantom at bay. She was never able to go out alone again, either; at least, not comfortably, without feeling that she was being watched. It was that night that changed her most drastically.

"Christine?"

Christine snapped out of her tormenting memories, and smiled apologetically at her anxious friend. "Sorry."

It was then the door opened.

"Countess," Mrs. Chambers addressed, "a man called for you just now. He wouldn't come in because he wanted to see you alone. The name he gave was O.G."

Christine frowned. "O.G.? Do you mean Oliver Gauntwood, Raoul's cousin? He did recently move to France... but then why would he wish to see me alone? He never travels without his sister, Olivia. And that would be odd of him to call, especially since I am supposed to see him tomorrow. Is he still here?"

"No, he's gone, and no, ma'am, this was _not_ Oliver Gauntwood. This was a _completely_ different sort of character. He dressed very darkly, and had a white mask which covered most of his face. He had a very strong presence, very... mysterious! That's the word! Very mysterious. He seemed somewhat ill, too. He said he was an 'old friend'."

"Christine," Meg said, turning to Christine quickly, "O.G. means--"

"_Opera Ghost_," Christine said faintly, realizing too, turning as white as a ghost herself.

"It can't be," Meg whispered, looking out the window blankly. "He disappeared four years ago."

Christine did not listen to Meg. The subconscious, faint, dim melodies that always played around in her mind suddenly became quite loud, and quite clear—louder and clearer than they had been in years, if not stronger—and fully overpowered her already haunted mind: _The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind... I am your Angel of Music... Christine... Christine..._

She was sure she could feel his breath upon her neck. The room was clouded, and she could once again see his lair, as she could only when she dreamt at night. The lake, the candles, the organ playing, and his _face_, that horrid and terrifying face, all becoming real and clear and appearing before her. His voice was drawing closer to her... closer...

"Countess? Are you alright?" Mrs. Chambers inquired, getting no response from the woman.

_Your chains are still mine! You shall sing for me! _she recalled him say at the Masquerade Ball, the night she and Raoul got engaged. His angelic, yet deceiving, voice drew closer still...

"Countess!" Mrs. Chambers cried worriedly, shaking her.

Christine regained control of herself again, taking in a ragged, sharp breath very quickly. She was once again in her study with Meg and Mrs. Chambers, not in the world below the Opera Populaire, and she heard no music (at least, not as clearly—she still heard faint whispers of her name in the wind that was blowing in from the window). She shivered, and the tingling sent more chills up her spine. How real it had been! Yet, she was safe, and the Phantom was not here. Christine sighed in relief and relaxed in the chair.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Chambers," she said, trying to smile to get her and Meg to relax their too-worried faces, "but I am feeling a little sick. Perhaps I need rest. After all, I am journeying tomorrow to see Oliver and Olivia. Meg, you will like him very much. He is a somewhat like Raoul, from what I recall. _Very_ handsome. Perhaps he might even make a suitable husband for you...?"

Meg blushed and smiled. "He'll more likely make a suitable husband for _you_. But we'll see."

Christine smiled, but only outwardly. For the rest of the night, she could not get rid of the Phantom's longing, commanding, seductive voice--she never had been able to all these years--or that terrifying vision, and no matter how hard Meg tried, Christine could not be brought back to her former cheer nor could she fully pay attention to Meg. Meg eventually gave up and decided to go to bed; Meg was staying with Christine for a few days, as she was accompanying her to the Gauntwood mansion.

"Good night, Christine," she said, taking her hand gently and giving it a comforting squeeze. Christine faked a smile once more for her sake.

"Thank you. Sleep well. Don't forget; tomorrow you meet your future husband, so you should get a _lot_ of beauty rest..."

Meg laughed. "I doubt a good night's sleep will make me attractive. But we'll see tomorrow, won't we?" she replied, a modest blush showing on her child-like face, and then she went to bed.

Once she was gone, Christine sighed, singing softly and unconsciously, "_Will he always be there singing songs in my head... will he always be there, singing songs in my head..."_

**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**dis/claimer: **Olivia and Oliver Gauntwood are mine. You hear me? MINE! That means you can't use them without my permission. Also, Frances is mine. And Mrs. Chambers. The rest basically aren't for now. This dis/claimer pretty much goes for the whole story. Yeah.

**A/N:** Wow, four people thus far are reading this story! Now I feel the pressure to make it good. Right now, it's actually all written, but I have to edit it, which is a PAIN because I'm a perfectionist to the max—seriously, for "The Scottish Opera", I edited the first chapter (prose) more than 5 times before I said, "ok, it's getting late, I should get off". Um, I'm trying to prevent this from becoming "Mary-Sue" (blech), and I'm trying to keep it as realistic as possible. If I start heading down Mary Sue Lane, review and STOP ME!!! Please. Um, this is based off the movie, and whatever small amount of knowledge I know from the book which I never read.

Ok, I'm doing this in an attempt to procrastinate doing my History homework (it's all _POLITICS_, ugh), lol. Don't worry, it'll get done, I won't fail out. I hope.

**Lady Wen: **Yeah, it's been 4 years, actually. When I first wrote this chapter, I assumed a 10 year age difference between Christine and the Phantom, but I actually prefer thinking he is older now, mostly because it fits in with the Lerouxesque feel I'm trying to incorporate into this story.


	3. Arrival At The Gauntwoods'

_Revised Version_

**Chapter 3**

**Arrival at the Gauntwoods'**

Christine and Meg departed the next morning for Oliver Gauntwood's house. He was also rich, so his house was not a quaint cottage by the edge of the woods. It was a mansion, much like the De Chagny Estate, only it was more fashionable by British standards, as Oliver and Olivia had moved from Britain.

Christine, though, was thinking about the Gauntwoods themselves, not their estate. The last time she spoke with Oliver and Olivia, it was at Raoul's funeral. Christine tried to remember her exact opinions of them. Oliver was very much like Raoul, that is, in gentlemanly courtesies and such, but he seemed only slightly rougher, darker; the difference in that respect was too slight to notice upon first meeting. He was much more of a flirt, and as a result never really settled down and married, but remained a bachelor. She remembered this side of him from when she met him at the first Christmas party she and Raoul hosted at their estate soon after their marriage. Oliver also seemed a little selfish, but he wasn't extravagantly so.

He was also was a lover of the arts. He, in fact, became the Opera Populaire's new patron, taking Raoul's place, since he considered it somewhat a family duty.

Olivia was only about sixteen. She had been trained musically for her entire life. She was planning on entering the opera, and of course, _not_ as a chorus girl, which would not be a hard task with her older brother's connections. Olivia was born to be a prima donna; at least, that is what she believed. Christine remembered a little too vividly the air of superiority that Olivia possessed. Her role model was Carlotta, the opera diva, to no one's surprise; however, Olivia was not _yet_ so hard to work with, and her voice was a _tad_ bit less cruel to the ears.

As the carriage pulled up to the Gauntwoods' estate, Christine wondered how much might have changed since she last saw them. Since it was at a funeral they had last met, their conversation had been somber, small, and rather insignificant; she had not learned much about how they were, and at that point, she didn't care to know. Yet now she would know, and sooner than she thought. As soon as the carriage stopped, Oliver appeared out of nowhere, seeming to be charmed to see Meg and happy to see Christine once more.

"Hello, Miss...?"

"Giry," Meg finished. "Miss Meg Giry."

"Ah, yes, Meg Giry," he said, smiling broadly. "I knew it began with a 'G' from the letter Christine sent me last week. What a beautiful name you have," he said, helping her out of the carriage. She blushed a light hue of pink. "Would you mind so terribly if I called you Meg, Miss Giry?"

"No, not at all," she said, turning pinker still.

"And Christine!" he said, helping her out of the carriage as well. "How have you been?" he asked somewhat somberly.

"Well, thank you," she said. "I still miss Raoul, but everyone has shown me great kindness and I'm doing much better."

"Good," he said, his natural joviality returning. "It is a shame you can only stay for a few days."

"Yes, but you know how hard traveling gets when you have a child." She stopped and thought about what she said. "No, you don't. Not yet." Christine smiled and winked at Meg. Meg shook her head.

"No, not yet," he said, eyeing Christine, an action Christine did not catch. "Well, come in, come in! There is much to see, and so little time to see it!"

The threesome walked off. Oliver spoke the most vivaciously, Meg was the most attentive and laughed at all his jokes and comments (and blushed at his many aggressive attempts to compliment her), and Christine was not quite paying attention to what either of the two were saying, but was looking into the dark, seemingly looming woods behind his estate. The wind seemed unnaturally musical to her.

---

"And this _ravishing_ creature you see before you," Oliver said to Meg, "is Miss Olivia Gauntwood herself."

"Hello," Meg said, smiling, still giddy from his last astonishing compliment.

"Hello," Olivia said indifferently, not even looking up from the book she was 'reading'.

"I hear you wish to join the opera."

"Why, yes," she said, suddenly interested and shutting the book, "I am."

"I am the current ballet instructor at the Opera Populaire."

"Really?" she said, excited. "Then you have met the magnificent Carlotta!"

Meg, not wishing to crush her enthusiasm, grinned politely and said, "Yes, I have. She is the most..." Meg paused to think of a tactful word. Christine stifled a giggle.

"Well, words cannot describe her," she finished clumsily. _Words I cannot say in polite society,_ she thought. Meg would've pitied Carlotta more for having suffered so much from Piangi's loss had she not been so intolerably... well, intolerable.

Olivia's eyes beamed. "Of course not! She is Carlotta, the prima donna! The _best_ voice in all of France—take no offense, Christine," Olivia added hastily and indifferently. She then sighed dreamily. "I only wish I could sing as she!"

_Let's hope not,_ Meg thought. Christine read her sentiment and stifled a giggle again.

---

Later on, as the evening was winding down, Christine was sitting quietly by the fire. Meg had gone to bed. Olivia had gone to practice her music. Oliver came in.

"Hello, Christine," he said softly. Christine smiled.

"Hello," Christine replied, as he took a seat across from her. "It was nice of you to let us stay here. Meg is quite a girl, isn't she?"

"Yes," he said, smiling. "She's very..." He searched his mind for adequate words to describe her. Eventually, he finished with, "alive, and full of...innocence."

"Exactly the way she always was," Christine sighed. "What do you think of her, exactly?"

"She's a very fine young woman," he said. Christine sighed, wondering if he was hiding his love for her, or if it had just been wishful thinking to hope that Meg would find her husband in Oliver.

He added hesitantly, "but you have changed a lot."

"How so?" she asked with a frown.

He sighed. "When I first met you, you were always so happy, so carefree—a lot like Meg. But as time progressed, you became more quiet and more melancholy; more secretive. Something's bothering you, I think, and it's not something minor. I want you to tell me what it is—if you do not mind—for no woman as beautiful as you should be worrying over anything."

Christine smiled faintly at the compliment. "I cannot deny it—that I'm robbed of my peace of mind, I mean. But can you blame me? After all, there's been a lot of stress in my life lately, especially since...someone I thought was long gone paid me a visit the other day. I did not see him, but he left a message with Mrs. Chambers--"

"Oh? Who was it?"

She shivered a little from a cold sensation that overtook her. She felt the feelings localize to where he had touched her long ago. The cold, icy sensation that tingled throughout her whole body when he was there still tingled now, and more strongly than before, as she sat there.

"Christine?"

"I prefer not to say," she said, quietly, her face turning red. "He was... a man at the opera."

Oliver sat quietly for a moment as he stroked his chin and furrowed his brow, obviously in thought. After a few moments of silence, he said, "Forgive me if this seems like a wild question, but are you referring to the Phantom of the Opera?"

She started a little, but composed herself. "Yes, I was, as a matter of fact..." She trailed off and looked determinedly into the fire.

"Raoul told me about him briefly, once. He said something to the effect of the Phantom was going to steal you away, but he saved you, and that no one had heard of him since...that is the only reason I suspected, for I know everyone else at the opera."

"Yes," she said, still looking into the fire. Memories of _Don Juan_ resurfaced.

Oliver frowned. "Christine?"

She quickly looked to him and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I am..."

"Distracted," Oliver finished. He moved his chair closer to hers and took her hands, a move which caught Christine by surprise. "You know, I've always wondered something: did you ever love that man? Raoul left that in ambiguity."

She shook her head and laughed, wondering why he wanted to know, but also secretly asked herself that question. She paused.

"I cannot say. He was my instructor for many years, and inspired my voice. He has haunted me ever since the day I met him face to face--no, even before that. His sadness always plagues my mind...and that face..." She recoiled in horror of the memory.

"Christine, are you--"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said quickly, shaking herself out of the creeping coldness. "But there truly isn't a day I don't think about him. I made the right decision, I know. I am thankful each day that Raoul was there to save me. I only wish I could've been more fully married to Raoul... he--the Phantom, I mean--stole my heart and my mind. I used to hate him for that; it is entirely possible that I still do. But, I've always felt terrible about having broken his heart. He's gone through sufferings I have never known, and I then added to his pain."

She paused. The two of them sat in silence for a while. Christine shuddered.

"It is a comfort and a torment for me to know that I am the _only_ one he will ever love, in his obsessive, demented way. It is for the best that he will never torture anyone else the way he has tortured me with his love. Then again--"

"What makes you think that the Phantom still loves you? You know, it may not have been him who called on you the other day. It could have been anyone, even some person with a twisted sense of humor playing a cruel prank on you. It's been _years_ since you last saw him. He may possibly be dead right now. Besides, he is no threat at the opera, since I have never been warned nor heard anything about the man, save what I've heard from you and Raoul."

Christine sighed, and answered, "The thought did cross my mind, but I doubt it. How many people go around wearing a mask and wearing black, as though it were a Masquerade, giving the initials 'O.G.'? When I first heard the initials, I thought perhaps it was you, but the conditions didn't make sense, for you were always eager to see me, alone or with company, for one--"

"And still am," he said, smiling. Christine let a small smile creep across her face.

"Anyway, after Mrs. Chambers described him, and I _knew_ it was him. You may not believe me, but I just _know_ it is him. Anything I thought had died about him in me has been resurrected—the fear, the hatred, the pity, the darkness, the..." She quickly looked to Oliver and looked into the fire once more. "I've just got to handle this like an adult. Otherwise, I am perfectly fine. Frances is well, my baby is well... if it is a girl, we wanted to name her Sophia."

"What will you name it if it is a boy?"

She hesitated. "I wanted to name it Erik for some time, but Raoul would never have liked it; perhaps I don't like it, either. It reminds me too much of the past. I would call him Raoul instead, in honor of his father."

Oliver nodded. The two sat in silence once more, Christine wrapped in her memories and Oliver wrapped in thought about this man who tortured Christine night and day.

"Well, it's getting late," Oliver finally said, letting go of her hands. "You need rest."

"Yes, you're right," Christine said in relief that this conversation was ended, getting up and walking a little distance away. "I can't sit here and stare into the fire all night, I suppose. And if you're worried about me, don't be. I'll be fine. I might just be overreacting after all this."

She smiled reassuringly to him, wishing she could be reassured herself. Oliver got up and headed to her and looked into her eyes.

"Good night, my cousin." He kissed her on the hand in an unusually tender manner, and left the room. Christine frowned, and touched the hand he had so softly kissed.

_He's been acting so peculiar_, Christine thought to herself. A dawning moment came upon her, which she quickly shrugged off. Deciding not to think of the 'what ifs' about that action, she decided it would be best that she went to bed as he suggested.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Whisper of the Winds:** Wow, he's really that old? I never knew that. Then again, I never read the book... I should have before I wrote this (shame on me). As it is, I'm working off the 2004 movie with Butler and Rossum (except I imagine the Phantom in this story to be a little less pretty than Butler). As I said in the previous chapter under the revised notes, I do prefer an older Erik now, but I'll leave it to the imagination of the reader.

And for later chapters, I'll fix the "De Chagny Estate" thing. :)

**phantom-jedi1: **Duly noted. I'll try to avoid that... the parentheses thing, I mean. I was so self-conscious about it when I edited this chapter.

**A/N: **Reviews are _always_ lovely (as long as they're not insulting), and I thank Lady Wen, phantom-jedi1, Whisper of the Winds, XScarlet MuseX, and LittleLottexoxEriksTrueAngel for reviewing! I'm happy because I haven't done anything wrong yet (or so I assume according to my nice reviews) except for a few minor things, so this is good! Yay! I hope to keep up the trend.

Yeah, I was reading Pride and Prejudice when I first wrote this chapter (over the summer—summer reading and such silliness), so if it seemed a little Austen-ish to you, you know why.


	4. Trapped

_Revised Version_

**A/N: **Sorry I haven't updated in so long. I came up with an entirely new chapter four because I hated what I wrote originally. It seemed on the brink of charging head first down Mary-Sue Lane, and rather than risk putting up that, I decided to write a new one. Unfortunately, this means I may have to rewrite most of my story... that's ok, I thought what I wrote originally was going down Mary Sue Lane, anyway. This one will be better (I hope). Ok, that's enough of me blabbing on about things that don't involve the Phantom. I don't any characters except for the ones I've claimed. I own all the nameless minor characters in this chapter, too. Read and review.

**Chapter 4**

**Trapped**

Christine's week with the Gauntwoods was finally up. Meg had gone back to the Opera Populaire, but not after receiving a few more embarrassing yet flattering compliments given by Oliver Gauntwood. Christine was sure now that Meg was going to become Mrs. Gauntwood before next spring, especially since Oliver did not show any romantic interest in Christine herself, except of course for their small conversation by the fire, especially that small kiss. Christine convinced herself that that was _all_ it was; a small kiss of affection from a cousin.

As it was, she did not want to think much of marriage. It made her think of Raoul, and how he was no longer by her side to comfort her, especially now when she needed his strength and comfort the most. It would be the first time in four years that she had to deal with the Phantom and her fears alone.

Her fears were increasing with time, and every day she feared even more the next time Erik would show up at her door. She tried her best to put him from her mind, but couldn't. It was bordering on impossible now. What was he looking for? What would he do to her when he finally got hold of her? What would he do to her children?

She replayed the possible scenarios in her mind over and over again, rehearsing something to say or do in each one. She had the underlying fear that the moment she saw him again, he would somehow find a way to overpower her. She wasn't even sure exactly how he'd react to seeing her again. The last time she saw him, she broke his heart and left him to deal with the mob, an action she still had mixed feelings about. She felt completely helpless and defenseless against their looming and inevitable meeting.

Yet, she couldn't just stand by and let him take her away once more. She had a child now who looked up to her for strength, and she had another on the way. No. She had to be determined and strong. She refused to let him take hold of her, to drive her to stay indoors behind locked doors.

This is why she convinced herself that going shopping with Mrs. Chambers was a good idea.

"Are you sure, Countess?" Mrs. Chambers said as she helped her put her coat on. "You're expecting any day now."

"I'm sure," Christine said crossly. "Besides, I am not _that_ far along just yet. I'm in the seventh month."

"You never know," she replied. "I had my daughter prematurely, and in the seventh month. I, too, was convinced I--"

"I assure you, I'll be fine," Christine stressed, unexpectedly feeling her features harden. She then softened them and smiled fondly at her closest maid and confidante. "Besides, you must understand that I am _dying _to get out of this house. I have absolutely nothing to do here but dwell on unhappy thoughts."

"Ah," Mrs. Chambers said, a sad smile on her face. "I understand. The Vicomte's passing is still hard, isn't it?"

Christine's face grew softer, her eyes becoming moist. She held in her tears and regained composure.

"More than you know," she replied quietly. "Let's go, Gabriele."

---

Christine and Mrs. Chambers headed down the street to the vendors. A thin layer of snow was covering the ground as a result of a light snowstorm from the night before; the conditions were not so bad that business could not be open, though.

"Goodness! Snow already? And it's only mid-November! Imagine what we'll have by Christmas," Mrs. Chambers remarked jovially. Christine did not respond, but was looking at several young boys playing in an alley.

"Countess," Mrs. Chambers said, nudging her lightly. Christine started slightly.

"I'm sorry, I was distracted. What did you say?"

Mrs. Chambers shook her head and laughed. "I say, Countess, you've been _very_ distracted lately. And I think I know why, too."

"Oh, really?" Christine said with a raised eyebrow, noting Mrs. Chambers' mischievous smile.

"Yes," she replied. She looked away and paused, trying to hold Christine in suspense. However, Christine said nothing, so Mrs. Chambers stated her conclusion: "You're in love."

"Don't be ridiculous," Christine remarked a little too defensively than she had planned.

"You're in denial! That _proves_ it."

Christine rolled her eyes, feeling a smile creeping across her face. "And who, may I ask, do I love?"

Mrs. Chambers shook her head. "I won't say; you'll only deny it, but _I_ know it's true."

"Just tell me who; don't be so childish."

"Oh, _me_, being _childish_? I would never think it."

Christine shook her head lightly and moved towards a fruit vendor, checking over an apple.

"Well, if you _insist_ on knowing what I think, you're in love with Oliver Gauntwood."

Christine nearly dropped the apple, but recovered it after a second or two of fumbling it in her hands.

"Are you absolutely out of your mind? That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

"Ha!" she said triumphantly, a gloating smile on her face. "I _knew_ it."

Christine knew that she couldn't have been farther from the truth, but she decided to humor her maid: she could use a little humor herself.

"Ooh, what are _those_?" Mrs. Chambers asked, pointing over towards another vendor. Colorful and exotic looking scarfs were on display.

"Oh, Countess--"

"You can call me Christine out here, Gabriele. I told you this last time we were out here. As long as we're not at home around the other servants, I don't mind."

Mrs. Chambers' grin grew wider. "Well, if that's what you wish, my dear. I'll be back in a minute, Christine."

Christine sighed, knowing it would be a fruitless attempt to try to stop her. She'd been on too many shopping trips with her to think or try to convince her otherwise.

As soon as Mrs. Chambers left her side, she found that she was alone, and her fears began to overtake her once more. She saw that for the first time in years, she was perfectly exposed.

As Christine laid the apple back on the stand, she felt someone's hand touch hers. She smiled apologetically and looked to the person who she touched to apologize when she realized exactly how exposed she was.

---

"Christine! Christine, look at this—oh, where did that girl go off to?" Mrs. Chambers asked, clutching a prized cerulean scarf that matched absolutely nothing in her wardrobe and would never be worn. She turned to the vendor.

"Excuse me, but have you seen a young, pregnant woman around?"

"Yes, I have," the portly man replied. "She might have gone off with some shady character that sometimes hangs around here. Is her name Christine?"

"Yes," Mrs. Chambers said, puzzled. "How do you know her name?"

"First off, because she told you to call her that when I was standing right here. Two, that man sometimes comes here, asking—practically pleading—if I had met anyone named Christine."

"What does this man look like?" Mrs. Chambers said, amused.

"Shady."

Mrs. Chambers' eyes glazed. "I was actually hoping more for a physical description, not an adjective."

"Black. White mask. Satisfied?"

If Mrs. Chambers hadn't recalled O.G., she would not have been. As it was, her jollity suddenly ceased in remembrance.

"That's O.G.," she blurted aloud.

"No, I think his name is Erik, not O.G.," the man said, frowning. Mrs. Chambers wasn't convinced.

"Where did they go?"

The man sighed and shrugged vaguely. "To be honest, lady, I wasn't paying attention to them. They didn't create a big enough scene for me to notice, whereas these little street rats—HEY!"

A boy in the process of stealing an apple scurried away empty-handed before the man fully had a chance to react.

"Ugh," he sighed, "those kids are going to be the death of me...one day, when they're all locked up in prison where they belong--"

"Do you know where he lives?" Mrs. Chambers pressed, her worry increasing.

"Lady, I don't know the guy very well. I don't know."

"Do you have any idea?"

"No. But since you're so determined to find him, I've seen him go off that way more than once," he said, pointing a little more definitively in the direction of the Opera House. "Maybe you'll find him down that-a-ways. Now, I've helped you all I can. You want to help me by buying something? These apples are very delicious, like you wouldn't believe...absolutely gorgeous."

He picked one up and held it temptingly in front of Mrs. Chambers to prove his point.

Mrs. Chambers instead shook her head, her stomach tying into knots with motherly worry. "I'm sorry, I have more pressing matters to attend to right now. Thank you for your help. Good-day, sir."

Before the man could respond, Mrs. Chambers hurried off towards the direction of the Opera House, not knowing exactly what to expect or where to go.

---

Christine could not believe what just happened. One minute before, she had been holding an apple. She then touched a hand. She turned her head to speak when she saw the mask. She tried to look away, hoping it was an imagination. Then she heard her name, whispered so tantalizingly soft into her ear. It froze her.

The next few moments were not so clear. It was like a dream. He took her hand, and she followed. She had been following for several minutes now. She, now becoming more conscious of the situation, saw that she was holding Erik's black-gloved hand, and his touch was still as cold and exhilarating as ever.

Yet, something was different about him. She could not tell what it was; all she could sense was that something was bothering him, and on so deep a level, it was spiritual. She couldn't explain how she knew this.

Now that he was finally there with her, she couldn't help but feel all her dormant fear rising up in the deepest chambers her heart. Christine was trying her best not to be manipulated by her fear and put her guard down again. She would not be deceived or give her mind blindly again. Though Raoul was not there to protect her, she had to try and fight his enchantments, no matter how hopeless it seemed to try.

"Erik," Christine said stiffly as he headed determinedly in one direction, "what are you looking for? Whatever it is, I cannot give it to you, I am sure; I am a mother now. My son is at home, probably sleeping. My other child is on the way, due within two months."

Erik said nothing, keeping on his determined pace. What terrified Christine was that his silence seemed to say quite simply and calmly, "I know". What else did he know? She still refused to show her fear, though it was quite obvious from her ghostly pale hue. She had been running from her fears too long; now that the epitome of all she feared was before her, she remembered that he was only a man. She gathered her courage once more and spoke.

"Won't you say anything? Not even one word?"

He persisted in silence. Christine persisted in interrogation.

"What are you planning to do with me now?"

No response.

"You're pulling me so fast, I can hardly keep up. Why don't you speak, Erik? Is it that you no longer care about me?"

Erik stopped and whirled around to face Christine. His masked face was inches away from hers, his incensed eyes lit with impatient fury.

"Don't you dare say that I no longer care about you," he said, his voice cold and longing, chilling her even more than the cold of early winter was. Christine felt her lower lip tremble.

She then at last noticed his eyes; though indignant, they, two crisp green-gray-blue portals, pointed only to his increased madness, his increased despair. Her suspicions were correct; he still held her as the object of his obsessive love. His eyes still captivated Christine in ways unknown to her, in ways she found harder to fight; however, she continued as hard as she could to keep the coldness in hers. However, it was a battle between fire and ice, and Christine could feel herself hopelessly melting. She couldn't help but think, though, that she was having the same effect on Erik.

After the moment they stared into each others' eyes lingered and passed, Erik turned around and continued on, bringing Christine with him, but a little more slowly, as Christine guessed, in response to her statement of him bringing her too quickly.

Christine remembered his eyes, those eyes that burned their gaze into her memory so permanently. He was still captivating, so perfectly and hauntingly captivating. Christine closed her eyes tightly shut, trying to forget them, trying to purge her mind of them.

_Raoul's eyes_, she thought in her attempt to do so. _What did they look like?_

She then remembered. Two warm circles of chocolate brown. Those soft eyes were eager and willing to protect, to serve, to love.

She saw how Erik's eyes and Raoul's eyes fused with each other in her mind. Erik was tainting her memory of Raoul.

_No, _she thought, trying her best to stop the infiltration. She couldn't. After a few moments of trying to remember, she could no longer picture Raoul's eyes.

Christine opened her eyes. She couldn't see a thing but darkness. For a moment, she was positively terrified. She couldn't even see her breath before her as she did out on the street, yet she could feel it. She began to shiver as her fear finally was unable to be suppressed.

"Erik," she whispered, her voice echoing in the blackness, "where are you taking me?"

"Here," he responded with slight bitterness. She assumed it was from her last remark. He let go of her hand gently. She heard his footsteps echoing off into nothingness.

Christine stood shivering, her teeth chattering, her knees ready to give in. What was she to do? Why did he just leave her? Should she run? If there was ever a time she should run, it should be now while she still had the strength to stand. Yet, wouldn't he have planned for that in advance? He wouldn't have left her alone if he didn't think there was any way she'd escape. She stood freezing, in a moment of indecision.

Before she had a chance to make up her mind, she saw a soft candle light in the distance. A row of candles lit up, each flame rising up quicker than the last. Soon, the candles were all around the vast room. The room was slowly becoming visible.

Christine knew where she was. A slight feeling of nostalgia came over her.

"The stage," she said fondly. Her soft voice echoed lightly across the rows of seats.

She suddenly felt his cold touch on her arms, so light, so subtle, she felt a shiver linger as it travelled down her spine.

"Yes," Erik said, his voice like a sweet, angelic whisper. "Your kingdom, Christine. _Our_ kingdom."

Christine nearly succumbed to his touch and his voice, but she snapped awake and quickly walked out of his grasp, taking a few steps away from him.

"Why have you brought me here?" she demanded.

Erik's eyes gleamed, his stare glaring, penetrating. She suddenly felt naked. He approached her slowly, each of his steps sounding definitive and clear. She kept backing away, shrinking with each step, trying to run from that feeling of bareness.

He said nothing, a seemingly popular and torturous tactic of his as of late, but he kept approaching. Her backwards retreat quickened, her strong question seeming more of a frightened plea than a defiant question. Finally, he backed her into a corner. Her widened eyes looked up into his. His eyes were so terrible, so piercing, so longing, yet so loomingly silent. He was only a few steps away. She was finally defenseless.

She asked once more in her last attempt of bravery, her voice hoarse and shaky, "Why have you brought me here?"

He took a step closer. He pushed down a lever on the wall beside her which she hadn't noticed before. It suddenly became clear. He had planned this. He had already guessed her every move. He had fully trapped her the moment he had taken her from the apple vendor's stand. The floor and the wall behind her started moving, and he stepped even closer and whispered into her ear something that made all the blood in her face drain, and finally killed her ability to fight:

"It's time we set things the way they should be."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok, I hope that was a good make up for not updating in so long. I'll try to update this at least once a week, but I'm not making any promises... silly colleges that I have to apply to... please be patient! Once December 15 passes, I shall be free from college dread. In the meantime, please read and review. Thanks to everyone who reviewed before!


	5. Mystery and Memories

_Revised Version_

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone for reviewing!

**LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath**: I'm keeping the ending pair up a secret. Sorry, but I don't want to spoil the ending.

**Social Misfit-01**: I'm going to try to write and post a chapter per week. Once all my silly college applications are finished, I'll have less pressure on me and I'll devote more time to this.

**Chapter 5**

**Mystery and Memories**

Christine awoke. It had been a rather restless and sleepless night for her.

Erik had brought her down to his world through another entrance from the stage. There was no boat ride this time, but she was instead taken down a winding corridor and then directly into the darkness.

She was completely exhausted by the time she got there, and it was not long until she fell asleep. She was slighly aroused when she felt him gently pick her up, as though she would break if handled too violently. She then felt herself being put on a soft, familiar bed. It must have been the same one she slept on the last time she was lured down here, except that time, it had been willingly. She could sense with great discomfort that he was looking at her, studying her, deeply longing for her. She was ready to protect herself against him if he attempted anything; however, after a minute or so, he left, closing the door and leaving an aura of hopelessness behind him.

She kept herself alert. She was back in the world of night, the world she had so desperately tried to escape for four years. She couldn't sleep very well, for fear of him. Besides, it was cold, and she could not get warm.

He did not, however, do anything to her. She was relieved, but groggy. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her eyes were wide.

She suddenly was filled with worry. She had probably been gone an entire day. Mrs. Chambers, Frances, and the rest of the household probably were worried about her. She pictured Frances asking with tears in his eyes, "Where's mommy?" and no one knowing the answer.

She knew Mrs. Chambers was tying herself in knots. Christine was aware that to Mrs. Chambers, she was like a second daughter. Mrs. Chamber's own daughter had died when she was Christine's age from an illness. This had happened a year before Christine became part of the de Chagny household. Since Christine didn't have a mother, and Mrs. Chamber didn't have a daughter, each invisibly filled the surrogate roles. They became close.

Christine felt horrible. Her disappearance must have felt like losing her daughter all over again to Mrs. Chambers. She felt tears come to her eyes. She curled herself up and began to cry.

How unfair Erik was being, how selfish! How could he even think of stealing her away, then claiming that he still loved her?

A weak fire was ignited in Christine's heart. How could he!

She got out of bed and stood on the cold ground. Her stance was shaky and unstable. She knew she wouldn't be able to leave. Perhaps that was part of his plan, too.

She had to talk to Erik. Maybe he would at least let her write a letter to her family, if he still had enough pity in his heart for her to let her do that.

She slowly made her way out of the bedroom. She expected to see him at his organ, but he was not there. Puzzled, she began to look around for him. When she looked over to the lake, she saw that the boat was gone. At first she assumed that he was on the other side, but then she realized that the boat being gone must have been a pre-emptive move from allowing her to escape.

She paused for a moment. Memories of _Don Juan Triumphant!_ arose in her mind.

"_Order your fine horses now! Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes! Nothing can save you now, except perhaps Christine!"_

She remembered Erik's anger, his violence, his desperation. His eyes had a mad look in them, one she was bound to say no to.

"_Start a new life with me! Buy his freedom with your love! Refuse me and send your lover to his death!"_

How could she have agreed to that? How could he have expected her to have miraculously stopped her love for Raoul? How selfish did he have to be?

Or how desperate.

"_Christine, forgive me, please, forgive me_!" she remembered Raoul cry as he was bound in Erik's jealousy and ropes.

She remembered Raoul's eyes, filled with true love for her, with that desire to lay down his life for her that she might be free. Oh, how she missed those eyes, how terribly so! She began to cry for desire of having him here now. How she wished they could be there now to convince her that she was safe.

She remembered her stinging hurt. She sang to Erik. She couldn't believe his level of betrayal. She had trusted him. How could he try to confine her solely to himself? How could he take away everything she loved? She... she had even _loved_ him. She saw that now. In return, he tore her apart, completely and utterly. She had been deceived. She had given herself too freely, too easily had she given him her mind. She had shown him too much pity.

Or perhaps she hadn't shown him enough.

Oh, how she hated this place! This was the last place she ever wanted to be, trapped in her memories, her fears. She let tears of anger fall, feeling more hate, more hurt inside. It wasn't right that she had to return here, to this horrid place, left to her weaknesses, to a world full of nightmares. And she still didn't even know why she was here. She would know if she ever found Erik, if he ever surfaced in his own home. She continued her search.

When she finished checking every room, she came to the conclusion that she was alone here. He had left her here. How could he! Did he really care about her as he insisted? Was this another trap? What really was going on inside of him? Why wouldn't he tell her?! It was entirely frustrating, entirely unfair. How could he even _say_ he cared about her when he stole her away like this? How could he _do_ this to her!

It was then that Christine truly, truly missed Raoul. He was no longer there to comfort her, to save her. She was alone. No one could comfort her now. She trembled horribly, shuddering and sobbing.

"Oh, Raoul! Why can't you be here?" she cried out, her voice, echoing across the still lake.

No one answered. She shuddered again, maing her way back to her bedroom and sitting on her bed. She cried with desperation, her heart open and torn, out of sorrow, out of anger, out of frustration, out of grief, until she became so tired, she fell asleep.

---

"Christine," said a gentle voice from above.

Christine began to fade into consciousness, her cheeks streaked with dried tears.

"Christine," the voice said again.

Christine lazily opened her weary eyes. She then saw Erik standing above her. She sat up as quickly as she could, her indignant feelings returning. Her emotions were making her body shaky.

"How are you?" he said with hesitance.

"How am I?" she said, her violent emotions seizing all control. "How _am_ I?! You dare ask me that?" she flamed, taking hold of what strength she had inside her. "You trap me down here, leave me here alone, prevent all possible methods of my escape, and _then_ you come in here and think you can win me over so simply? Let me tell _you_ something, Erik. Life isn't a fairy-tale. I don't know what sort of fantasy, what sort of dream you're living in, but whatever it is, I'm going to shatter it. It's not real, Erik. Anything you have imagined between us is a lie you've been telling yourself. I _hate_ you, Erik. How could you _do_ this to me?! You _still_ haven't explained to me why on earth you have brought me here, to this most horrible and nightmare-ish of places. You treat me as though I am a child, as though I will be satisfied with being taken places and not knowing the reason why because I won't understand. I am no child, Erik, and I want and _deserve_ an answer!"

Erik's eyes were hardening in silent anger, shock, and hurt. These only encouraged Christine, as she continued to let her tears fall in cold anger, her body shaking in the emotional frenzy she was worked up to.

"Is there a reason to this madness? Do you plan to kill me? To rape me? To force me to marry you? To hurt me, or others? What revenge plot is this a part of? Who do you plan to hurt this time? What more freedom to you wish to take away from me? How can you say you care about me, when that is all you do? Imprisonment is imprisonment. I'm still your captive, but I am not willing as I was four years ago. You may be dead inside, Erik, but I wish to live. What is your _point,_ Erik ? Why do you stand there, saying nothing? Tell me!"

Erik was livid in fury. Christine saw it in his quaking figure. Christine felt all her strength tremble, but she held firm.

"_SILENCE_!" he roared at her. Christine jumped back in fear, but held hatefully firm. Christine saw several emotions combating each other in his eyes. He slowly approached, his anger restrained.

"I do not live in _fantasy_," he spat calmly, stopping inches from her face, allowing his hard eyes to penetrate hers. He then violently threw off his mask and let it fall, shattering it against the wall. Christine suddenly felt terror when she beheld his face: it had grown more hideous with time. She, however, did not allow herself to be moved.

He tried to restrain his anger, his shaking hand, his quivering lip. "Does this look like a man who has hope, who can afford to have the luxury of dreams? You know it's true. Of course I have a _reason_ for your being here; it's not time for you to know just yet. I have no intention of hurting you, Christine, neither do I wish to. Just be patient. Try to understand that things are not ready for you to know just yet. Once I have said all I need to say, then you will be free to go to your _family_ and _friends_, or wherever else you wish! I have nothing more to say to you right now."

"And why can't I know now?" she challenged, seething with contempt for him, feeling herself dying inside from all her anger, her grief, her hurt. "Why must this be such a secret?_ Tell me_!"

The two kept their antagonistic stances, each staring the other down, each breaking the others' defenses. Christine gradually saw his eyes and a message she had not noticed before. Those eyes were pleading for her to know something, to see and understand _something_, but were unsure of how to say it, and were therefore utterly frustrated. To their frustration was added the hurt and pain from her emotional outburst. She finally saw his soul, his spiritual conflict. Christine found herself intrigued in his mystery, his eyes' silent, pleading message, hidden behind his coldness. What did he want to say, and why couldn't he say it? Yet, how could he begin to justify her kidnapping by his spiritual pain?

They looked into each others' eyes for so long, she felt the coldness in both her eyes and his gradually and slightly subside, an invisible sign of some forgiveness. She began to regret saying some of the horrible things she had accused him of, but she still could not erase that feeling of hurt within herself.

Erik suddenly moved away, bitterly kicking the pieces of the mask away as he went.

"Where are you going?" Christine demanded, still waiting for her answer.

He stopped briefly, but said nothing and continued on out of the room. After a few moments of calming down from her hatred, she fell into a state of calm hardness. She then stood up and followed after him. She saw him sitting down at his organ to play. She knew that he felt her presence.

"What is it?" he asked somewhat coldly, without looking at her. He seemed even to be crouched away from her, as if he was trying to his face from her in shame. He was holding a new mask in the hand closest to Christine.

"I wanted to ask you if I could write a letter to my maid, Mrs. Chambers, to let her know I am still alive," she said, following the stiffness of the atmosphere. "She was with me in the market when you stole me away. She must be worried sick."

He did not turn to look at her; in fact, he did nothing but sit in silence for a long time. He then suddenly shuddered and nodded loosely. She sensed his crumbling heart inside, his crying, his longing. She then knew with guilt and frustration that he did love her, despite all that he did and all she said.

"Thank you," Christine said with some softness, surprised and disarmed by his sudden sign of weakness. She turned around and went back into her room. She felt him restraining himself from looking at her. She knew that he was on the verge of a breakdown, if he had not begun to break down already. She felt tears come to her eyes once more, but not from hate. They were from pity and frustration. She still wondered why her angel of music hurt her so much.

She heard the shattering of another mask.

---

Mrs. Chambers had alerted the police to her disappearance after several hours of unsuccessful searching. She was able to give the police a rather accurate description of the man, seeing as she had met him herself.

She could hardly believe it. When he appeared at the door, she never expected him to be anything but a strange man. She learned that this was not just any man, but the dreaded Phantom of the opera that was still being sought for by the police. Who knew where she was now, or how she was? She might have even been out of France.

Mrs. Chambers had been inconsolable for days. Though Oliver Gauntwood (and to a lesser extent, the apathetic Olivia) came over daily to inform her of the search party's results, which were always unsuccessful, and Meg came to express her sorrows and cry with Mrs. Chambers, no one was able to cheer her up. She kept reliving the death of her own child, Rebecca.

---

"Mama," she said with a cracking voice, looking weakly up to Mrs. Chambers, her mother. There was still the will to live, divine strength within her grey eyes. The room was dark, lit only by a candle, and uncomfortably hot. It was just not the right setting for her. It was as though she was living out a destiny that was not hers. The cheap red, thick curtains were drawn over the window. The whole house was poor and decaying. Her daughter's husband was no where to be found, as he had recently left France for England to live with his mistress. He was the reason she had become sick in the first place: her heart was terribly, irreparably broken.

The only other people in the room were her husband, the doctor, and a priest, who were all silently praying. The priest had already given her the sacraments, and now everyone was waiting for her to die. Mrs. Chambers was still clinging to failing false hope.

Her pale forehead was covered in sweat, her form shaky and made incredibly weak from fever.

Mrs. Chambers grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly, looking into her grey eyes.

"You'll be alright, sweetheart," she said, holding back the tears in her eyes. She knew deep inside that she would not be.

"Yes," she said, smiling, her eyes half-closed. She also knew she would die. Yet, her eyes were crying out a triumphant secret, a joy, which consoled and confused Mrs. Chambers.

Suddenly, Rebecca coughed violently, her chest heaving. Mrs. Chambers put a wet cloth on her forehead frantically.

"Mama, stop," she said, her smile vanished. Mrs. Chambers looked to her with pleading eyes, begging her not to die, if it was possible.

"Please, Rebecca, don't speak," she said, holding her hand tightly in hers. "You need rest if you want to recover."

"No, mama, listen," she said, shivering. "I'm not going to recover. I see the angel now, ready to take me to God. He's calling me. I'll be alright. I--I just have one thing left to say before I go. Papa," she said, reaching out to her father with the other limp hand, which he took firmly in his. His normally strong and stoic eyes were betrayed with the beginnings of tears.

"I love you both. Tell my husband that I will always love him."

"That scoundrel is no husband of yours," Mrs. Chambers said, feeling contempt for him. How could he forsake her so unfeelingly? How could he _not_ love her?

"He _is_," she said sternly, shuddering violently. Her hopeless longing and broken heart spoke through her sadly lit eyes. She coughed up blood. Mrs. Chambers squeezed her hand tighter. Mrs. Chambers looked up to her husband, feeling lost. For the first time, he seemed lost as well.

"Please, pray for him, forgive him," she said, her throat gurgling with mucus and blood which she coughed up. Mrs. Chambers was astounded that she could still love her husband.

"And please," she begged weakly, "find my daughter."

Mrs. Chambers nodded, feeling her world crashing before her eyes. "We will find Marie, I _promise_ you, with God's help, we will find her! Just please, don't—"

Mrs. Chambers saw it in Rebecca's eyes. She saw a look of relief on them, of peace, of contentment, and then she breathed no more.

---

Mrs. Chambers still had not found Marie. She would be four by now. It was harder to deal with since her husband had died shortly after her daughter passed away. He had been killed in an accident only days after Rebecca's passing. She remembered receiving the news and not believing it. She remembered how she cried for days, and then she herself became sick with grief. She was supposed to die from that illness; however, she had a dream one night in which her daughter told her not to sorrow so, for her husband was also safe in God's arms. She still had to fulfill her promise and find Marie. She had to get well. She miraculously recovered when she awoke. Shortly afterwards, she became a maid for Raoul de Chagny, keeping an ear open for the whereabouts of a girl named Marie. It was one of the reasons why she went to the marketplace so often and how she developed a keen sense of hearing.

Mrs. Chambers was now in Christine's study, sitting in her usual chair, feeling lost again. She couldn't believe this was happening once more to her. First Raoul died, and now Christine was missing. She didn't feel the Vicomte's passing as hard as Christine, but she sympathized with Christine's pain, possibly more than she realized. It had been one heartache after another for Mrs. Chambers for the past five years.

Suddenly, Miss Darrow entered the study, her oddly colored violet eyes looking anxiously at Mrs. Chambers.

"Gabriele," said the young maid, "we received a letter from Christine. She's fine."

Mrs. Chambers stood up, feeling an ocean of relief in her. She began to cry in joy. Miss Darrow received the most crushing hug in the history of the world.

"She didn't say where she was," Miss Darrow added, feeling the constriction, "but she said that she was fine. She was 'in the care of an angel', as her letter said, and also not to worry. She says she hopes to be back soon, and she will try to keep correspondence, but that both aren't really up to her."

"Thank God, I knew He would not forsake me again," she said in between sobs. Miss Darrow smiled lightly and felt tears coming to her own eyes as she hugged her back.

That night was peaceful for the De Chagny household.

---

Christine was sitting in the dark in her room, tears falling. She desired so much to have a real angel to guide her, to bring her hope. She sang softly to herself in an attempt to console herself:

"_Angel of music, guide and guardian, stay by my side, guide me! Angel of music, hide no longer, come to me strange angel_!"

Suddenly, the door opened slightly, letting a sliver of light into the room and and onto her. The swift creak of the door startled her a little. She wondered what was going to happen now. She was sick of arguing with him. They were both perfectly miserable.

"Christine," said his fragile, deeply apologetic voice, "please, come out. I--I'm going to explain everything to you, right now. You're right. I do owe you this. Please, f-forgive me. I'm sorry I've brought you more pain than you need. I know you're still dealing with... the death of your h-husband. But you must know there has been something deep inside my soul, Christine, which has bothered me these last four years. Only you can help me. Please, come out, Christine."

Christine was moved to pity. She wiped her tears away and gently came to the door.

"I'm listening, Erik," she said softly, looking down, and not into his eyes.

---------------------------------------

Ok, I don't own any of the Andrew Lloyd Webber songs, but I sing them so much, I should.

I promise, you'll know Erik's reason, too, but that's the next chapter. Read and review! I'll update soon.


	6. The Ghost's Reason

_Revised Version_

**A/N:** _Don't forget to see my profile for the contest. _

This is version 6.0 or 7.0 of this chapter, if you can you believe it. I would have updated sooner, but due to writer's block and...other...matters... I have not. This was no doubt the toughest chapter I had to write, because, well, it was hard to justify Erik and get Christine to...well, I won't spoil the ending of the chapter. I had so many ideas, but I ended up revising them (but kept the gist of them).

Thanks to all my reviewers for reviewing.

**LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath**: Hmm... _possibly_... but you're not going to find out in this chapter.

So without further ado...

**Chapter 6**

**The Ghost's Reason**

Christine followed Erik out of her room. He was weakly walking in spirals, crashing into things rather clumsily. Christine could not help but notice that he was shaking as well, which might have been a result from the cold, but Christine knew better. Erik was quite shaken.

He stopped and started sporadically as he began mumbling to himself and every now and then glanced back at Christine with a quick, nervous look. He brought her to a back room, which housed his piano and a library of sorts. There was a fireplace, where currently a fire was burning. Despite the fire, the room was like the rest of the house: swallowed in darkness. Little shadows danced across the many papers that rested askew about the floor, on the furniture, off music stands, off the piano—simply put, just everywhere. It almost seemed as if a tornado had wrought havoc, and the debris was left to stagnate.

"Sit," he said fragilely, loosely pointing to a gold-decorated chair, covered lightly in dust. Christine sat down as though she were sitting on glass. He closed the door behind them as though someone might intrude, and then walked across the carpet of scattered papers on the floor.

"This," he began, trembling, his voice and movements no longer echoing due to the acoustics of the smaller room they were in, "this is not easy for me to—to relate, Christine, for it is in no way... rational, or even... s-sane."

He stole a quick glance to Christine and rattled out a sigh that sent chills up her spine. It seemed that he didn't know where to begin. His fragility also caught Christine off-guard, and she suddenly noticed that he was lightly shivering. She began to worry about his health, and if that was the reason he brought her here.

"The only reason I have not yet spoken to you is mostly my own cowardice... I've been afraid to face you, Christine; what wasn't cowardice was a lack of words to say. That was also partially the reason why I had left you earlier today; I was trying to think of how I could begin to explain... I still hardly know where to begin..."

He breathed with unstable calmness.

"D-do you recall the n-night of _Don Juan_?" he finally stuttered with a quivering lip.

Christine nodded, the images suddenly flashing like fire in her mind, both literally and figuratively. She remembered how he had set the opera house ablaze that night. It had taken a year or two to rebuild before the operas could again resume. Not only that, but she recalled now the murder. The kidnapping. The performance--

"And..." Erik calmly continued, breaking her out of her memories, "do you remember what you told me that—that night?"

Christine remembered everything about their conversation in a bitter flash. She recalled the hatred she felt in her so vividly that for a moment before it passed, it frightened her; however, she remained silent, though angry tears began to sting her eyes in memory.

Erik answered for her, and in such a simply broken way, Christine's hatred vanished. Instead, she felt her heart break with guilt and pity:

"You... you said that... it was in my soul where the t-true distortion lies."

Christine felt the wall of bitterness towards him beginning to dissipate. She tried remaining angry, for she feared that he would entice her again with a deceptive display of fragility, and the last thing she wanted to be was weak. The violent way in which he held her, the way he told her that it was his face that 'poisoned their love' she tried her hardest to recall from the night of _Don Juan_. Unfortunately, when she looked over to the nearly ghostly man, she couldn't hold onto that grudging memory. It faded in irrelevance at his pitiable state.

He shuddered, resting his head on his hands, leaning his elbows against the piano at an awkward angle, shattering the air into a ghostly stillness.

"You—you were right."

There was a moment of silence. Christine was miserably speechless. She wished that her words hadn't had such a horrible effect on him, though they both knew them to be harshly true. Erik stole a glance at her and looked away.

"That, Christine," he said with a light, trembling sigh, "is where this insanity begins."

He hesitated and then sank down onto his piano bench and into a more comfortable position than the awkward angle he had placed himself in.

"After you left, that... that was all I could think of," he began, almost seeming as if he could say nothing at all. "It was all I could recall of you, I mean. It was not your smile, not our lessons, not—not your innocence, not your betrayal, your beautiful pity...not anything else but that one, simple phrase. '_It's in your soul where the true distortion lies'_..."

Erik violently rattled and coughed, shivering. Christine believed that her suspicions were correct: he was sick, and not only sick; he was _dying_. She lifted a concerned hand lightly, but Erik continued his melancholy narrative, so she limply put it back down and listened, feeling helpless to do otherwise.

"Day and night, it tormented me, you--" (Erik began to grow more and more passionate as he continued) "—_you_ tormented me. I... tried to... to forget you, but every day, every _night_, you were there, forever and eternally rebuking me...I tried to hate you, Christine. Yes, I even convinced myself that I hated you. But it didn't last; it wasn't a true hatred... it was empty, false, wrong in every way... I came to realize that truly, truly... I could not hate you, _ever_. I—I would always l-love—_love_," he repeated, and continued in a miserable passion, "you, you, you, and only _you_."

The last 'you' seemed to kiss the air with a heartbreaking misery as soft and faint as flickering candlelight. He began to cry in shamed, anguished misery. Christine felt warmth drain from her into the air as she pitied him. A veil lifted before her eyes: she could never have truly hated him, either; it was impossible, even if he was a nightmare to her, even if she dreaded him and feared him, it all ended in pity.

She beheld his sad form as he sat there, looking very tired, very finished. Christine almost felt the same way from looking at him. He crumbled, covering his masked face in shame as he convulsed gently and sobbed. Christine bit her lip to keep herself from crying, though she was moved by so deep a pity that she could not hide her tears.

"Please, don't—don't cry for me, Christine," he said softly, letting loose a dreadful, rattling sigh. Christine snapped out of her tears, though her eyes remained swollen with unrestrained dampness. She didn't know what exactly it was about Erik that could make her angry with him one minute then pity him the next.

"I fell ill," he continued, trying to regain himself, but was falling short. His sentences began to become choppy. "In fact, I was--dying. The only person who stayed by my side was—was Daroga—I mean, Nadir—the Persian," he explained with a slight frown and sighed. "I felt almost grateful, despite the fact that I've loathed him for hanging the debt I owe him over my head for so long. Now that I owe him a second time, he will be even more... intrusive. He's currently in Persia, at least for the time being, visiting his dying father, so I will have some peace for another week or so while he makes the return journey home..." Erik said airily and somewhat bitterly. He shivered and resumed his former air of sadness.

"But, when I was ill, I—I hallucinated. I saw you, Christine, floating around me, an angel—truly, you were, and you were... _beautiful_," he said artfully, as if he could suddenly see Heaven floating before his eyes. "Golden, radiant light haloed you most exquisitely, so gracefully... and all you would say each time—such a pitiless, merciless angel!—was that phrase as true as the divine! _Ah_!" Erik cried. He looked betrayed, as though she had just pierced him with a knife through his heart.

"I began to go--insane, absolutely _mad_! I told you to stop, but you persisted, even when I cried and begged for mercy. You sang it to me, whispered it to me, and even _shouted_ it to me! Day and night, Christine, _day and night!_ I hated myself, I detested myself, I-I even tried to kill myself on more than one occasion, but I was too weak to even hold a noose properly at the time... yes, it is horrifying, I know, to your innocent ears, but your ghostly illusion kept _taunting_ me. Daroga only heard me raving in my delirium for mercy from you... I was dying--of love..."

Erik was worked up to tears at the memory of it. He wept silently, hiding behind his hands and his mask. Christine began to let go of her grudges and pity him more easily.

When he collected himself, he paused.

"A-And, all the while, Christine, you, my golden angel of light, continued your rebuke, eternally completing my torture...no, don't look so guilty, Christine, don't lay the burden of blame upon yourself! You—you were completely, utterly right. You are an angel, a beautiful, _flawless_—I was a monster to you, to others...I—I am nothing but--a _murderer_ to you."

The word shattered the air with its icy, crisp, and horrible tone. Erik shivered miserably, causing more papers to fall onto the floor from his piano, also causing some dust to get kicked up into the air. He seemed more unstable than before, shivering madly. Christine felt the little flame of fear ignite for him as it once did.

Erik then frowned, recalling in perplexity, still shivering. "But—but in the height of my illness... I saw someone new. I—I didn't know who it was. It was a little girl... I thought it was you, but she was too young. She was... I still don't know. Perhaps she was an angel. On her first visit—for she visited me all throughout my illness--she said that she was coming with redemption, for _me_ (of all people), and she said that I would recover. Then she--she--"

Erik began to get worked up in inner turmoil and shuddered violently.

"Yes?" Christine pressed, in growing concern.

"She joined my hand lightly to yours," he said softly. "It was odd... I felt your hand in mine, as though it was really there, physically there, and alive--and then she giggled as innocently as a cherub and vanished."

Christine looked at him perplexedly.

"I was confused, delirious, and in a high fever," Erik repeated, as though to defend himself. "I was on the verge of death. But that is what I saw... after she began to visit, you no longer rebuked me... in fact, you began to be kind to me, as though you forgave me, and sometimes, you would--" (he chuckled and smiled, but with a tinge of plaintiveness) "—you would look on me with pity. It was almost like... you—you--"

He trembled, gazing distantly at a candle's flame that stood on another side of the room. He then shivered and continued.

"I recovered, as you can see."

Christine saw his weakened state and begged to differ, but she didn't argue.

"Did you ever find out who she was?"

"I—no. As I said before, I don't know her. I—I have never learned her name. She seems familiar, but I can't place where I've seen her before...she only said that—in another hallucination, when I was ill--" (he looked down, and then glanced at Christine and continued quietly) "—she said that you would help me."

Christine frowned in bewilderment.

"What? Help you? How--how, may I ask, can that be?"

Erik sighed. Christine felt that she had spoken a little too harshly.

"I... don't know. She hasn't visited me since then... but she said that one day I would find her, and you would help... I don't know if you can, but I thought I ought to try... she was young, maybe four... or six... she had an uncannily sagacious look in her eyes. She reminded me of the sea, with her blue eyes and dark brown hair...she once wore rags of a faded blue dress... do you know her? Do you think she's real?"

Christine sighed. "I don't know. It is entirely possible, though..." Christine didn't finish her thought.

Erik sighed in frustration and despair.

"Well, if you _do_ meet her... if you do find her... please... tell me... she is driving me insane, for I've begun to dream of her as of late. There is only one dream that I dream over and over—she is in the Louise-Philippe room, holding your hand and smiling, laughing, and then she looks over to me—and you do, too—and she calls my name, and I start to come, but as soon as I touch her hand, I wake up. I don't even know her name, though I know I've called her by it many times... she may just be a hallucination, but if you find her... please... send me a note, or...if you would..." He dared to look with childish, guarded hope to her eyes. "...come back and see your poor Erik?"

Christine stared at him, speechless. Over the course of his explanation, she felt sucked into him, and she couldn't—and didn't particularly wish to—escape. Yet, her reason told her that she should approach this cautiously...

Suddenly, his eyes bulged. A silence fell on the room.

"Erik, what--"

"Shh," he said, and then slowly got up and walked over to the door—he was shaking, but it seemed to be involuntary on his part. He put his ear against the door and a look of dread came across his face. Suddenly, Christine heard vacant footsteps. He sharply, panicked, looked over to her.

"Erik?" a distant but familiar voice called.

"Curses! It's Madame Giry. She's here to check on me," he mumbled to himself aloud. He then snapped around to Christine with wild and strict eyes. "Don't-don't move—don't make a _sound_!--I'll be--right back."

Erik opened the door, only to find Madame Giry's stern face right in front of his. She was still outside the room. Erik gasped and took a surprised step backwards, only to catch himself just as quickly and step out of the room, closing the door behind him almost all the way. Christine was able to see only Erik from where she was sitting.

"Oh, Madame Giry," he scowled, his voice trembling and full of surprise and forced irritation. "Didn't I tell you _not_ to disturb me?!"

"I assumed you were resting, since I didn't hear you composing, and I know you have been sick--"

_So he _is_ sick, _Christine thought with confirmed worry. She was debating whether or not she should let her presence be known.

"Madame, I need room to think. At least have the courtesy to _knock_ before you enter."

"I _didn't_ enter—you opened the door just as I was _about_ to knock."

Erik gritted his teeth.

"Do you care to take your medication now, or should I come back later? I have it right here in my hand, and I'm making tea for you--"

"I don't want my medication--" (he flung his arm out in irritation. Christine heard a bottle smash, which made her flinch at the violent sound.) "--and I don't think I ever will! Woman, do you ever quit pestering me? You're becoming to be as terrible as Daroga, never letting me leave this _place_ unless it's to see a performance in Box 5--"

"Well, Erik, I happen to know that you have been sneaking out of the opera house, so I do not see the point. Yes, Erik, I actually have caught you on several occasions, but I've said nothing. I'm not as blind as you think, Erik."

"Fine," he conceded, "I've left the opera house on rare occasion. Can you blame me? I'm locked up inside this place, as if you could really lock Daedalus in his own labyrinth... I left only because you two _fools_ never let me leave! All you have are assumptions with no conclusions! What exactly are you driving at, Madame?"

"I happen to know that the police are searching for you, and it is only by my grace and Nadir's that they haven't come here to arrest you."

"They've been searching for me for _years_, but to no avail! They will never find me... I can hide myself away quite well, and it is not because I depend on you or Daroga; so unless you make your point--"

"Where is Christine Daae?" she demanded sharply.

Draining and suspenseful silence filled the air. Erik's face grew pale. Christine started a lightly at the sound of her name.

"What—what are you t-talking about? You know very well, I--that promise I made to you and Daroga--"

"I very well _know_ you didn't intend to keep it—I found some of the notes you discarded, with your plans scribbled out on them—"

"Didn't I tell you to stop rummaging through my things?"

"Quiet, Erik," Madame Giry barked. "You know you are untrustworthy. You even said so yourself—you made us _swear_ to help you in any way we could to help you keep your promise. I do not _have_ to help you--"

"Save me the lecture. I don't need your _help_—I don't need your _pity_—I need _nothing_ and _no one_!" he spat so vehemently, he threw himself into a bronchial coughing fit, losing his vice grip on the door handle and let the door open all the way. Christine felt exposed as she saw Madame Giry kneel down beside him.

"Erik, calm yourself, you'll fall ill again—oh, dear, your fever is going through the roof again—I happen to know you've driven yourself ill on account of _her_--here, take your medication, I have another bottle--"

"Leave me!" he cried, his anguish caught between his coughs as he tried to push her away without success.

"Oh, I will do no such--"

Madame Giry looked up for a brief moment and saw Christine.

"Christine?" she said incredulously. Suddenly, Madame Giry's eyes turned hawkish and narrowed and she glared daggers at him.

"You broke your promise, Erik," she said, pity, anger and betrayal emphasized.

"What is this promise?" Christine asked, confused, finding no point in remaining silent any longer.

"He promised the Persian and me that he would never interfere with you again! Erik, why do you torture us so?"

The two women looked at Erik, no longer coughing, but sobbing on the floor in a pitiable heap. He cautiously grasped for his mask and took it off, hiding his face from the two of them.

"Forgive me, I—I had to remove the mask... Antoinette, please, don't be angry with me... don't pity me... just leave me... I am not going to keep her here much longer... I... I...just, please, let me speak with her, and then... please... it is the request... of a sick man in love..."

Madame Giry studied him in turmoil. She never once lost the steel glint in her eyes, though it softened gradually. After a few moments of indecision, she looked over to Christine, who felt quite blank and at a loss for words, though her heart began to race subtly.

Madame Giry then sighed.

"I'll come back later, to give you your medicine. I won't ask questions, I won't say a word to the authorities—but you must promise me that you won't attempt this foolishness again! Next time, I may not be so kind!"

Erik weakly mumbled something and tried to stand, looking even weaker than before. He gently picked up his mask, and Madame Giry, still quite firm, though slightly softened, turned away so that he could put his mask on in peace without her seeing the wretched deformity (it had only gotten worse with time). She then sighed and headed off, and then she was gone.

Erik stood with weakened knees before Christine. He looked to her, embarrassed and awkward.

"Christine, would you please help me... get over to my chair? I'm afraid my knees are... rather weak, and I must sit."

Christine helped him to the piano bench once more as he coughed violently. He was shivering all over. She instinctively felt his forehead, having taken care of her son Francis when he was sick before.

"Erik, how long have you been sick like this?"

He paused and looked down. "I have been... sick like this since—since your husband died."

Christine started when he said that; she did not quite know why. Suddenly, she frowned.

"Erik, what was this promise I heard about? Why did you come to see me that one day?"

Erik shuddered and sighed, filling Christine with a feeling of hollowness.

"_Oh, Christine_..." he said, in an almost hypnotically angelic tone. "I wanted to set things straight between us... to tell you of that little girl... to try and become your friend... it is the only reason I have brought you here, really... I haven't spoken to anyone in such a long time, save to argue... I have not had a friend in so long... I know you do not love me... and you never will... so I vowed to not interfere with your marriage—that is the promise, which I begged Daroga and Madame Giry to help me keep—for I knew you loved that boy so much, so much more than you would ever love me... I did not wish to be the cause of discord, of your unhappiness... I may have scarred you, but I would not cause ruin in your life further... yet, once your husband died, the obstacle was gone, and it became harder for me to keep my promise... I called on you because I wanted to see if it was possible to see you and speak with you again, but it turned out that all the odds were against your poor Erik... You were not alone, and in that household, you are never alone... I needed to see you, speak with you, alone... and Erik is always alone...so I brought you here.

"I found out your husband died completely by accident. I had finished working on an opera—I plan to give it to my managers as an early Christmas present, mostly for my amusement in watching it being performed—and as I was up in the rafters... I saw Gauntwood, and learned of Olivia's 'rising talent'... they spoke of her becoming a prima donna... ha! Let her try! The opera I wrote—'_Faust's Victory'_, I believe I named the finished score—was made so that only you could sing it the lead with perfection... I heard that you were returning... I know my managers won't like my resurrection, and perhaps I shall have to declare war on them once more... in which case, my music will do it for me, and all I have to do is simply watch...

"But anyway, they spoke of your husband's death, and at that moment... every little drip of life in me was sucked out... I began to work on my _opus magnum_ again... I began to be driven to madness for love with you... for the past few years after my illness, you only surfaced as a ghost of my imagination, but for the past six months..." he shyly looked up to her, but then looked away from her rather shamefully. "But that does not matter. Erik—your poor Erik—doesn't want to cause you any more heartache. He only wishes to be your friend."

Christine frowned, slightly disturbed by the fact that he spoke of himself in the third person; however, she almost felt helpless, for words were betraying her once more; she was speechless again.

"Please," he said with a quavering voice, getting off the piano bench, "let things be set right between us."

He clumsily knelt before her, looking no better than a little child before a queen or a goddess. He almost dared to take her hand, but decided not to, and looked down. "...Let things be set right between us," he repeated, his voice with a nervous tremor. "Christine, I know... you will not... love me... but please, feel free to think of me as a friend... as your poor Erik...your greatest friend..."

He took out a golden ring which gleamed like the sun even in the dim light of the room.

"This is the ring you gave me four years ago on the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_..."

Erik gently took her hand and put the ring in it, as though she were fragile, and closed her hand into a light fist around it.

"...I want you to keep it, as a reminder. I... I just want things to be as they should be. Not as they are. I no longer wish to be seen as an enemy, as a nightmare... I'm... sorry for everything I've put you through... Please, just keep it."

He quickly withdrew his hand, as though touching her had been a crime. Christine was in shock; her heart was beating in the excitement of the moment, the terrible excitement and surprise of receiving the ring. She saw a pained look in his eyes, which were again averted, and she finally felt unguarded pity for him.

A silence ensued as Erik again, clumsily, stood, and then sat back down on the piano bench with some difficulty (another coughing fit had seized him). Christine stared at the ring which Erik had put into her hand, feeling her heart in her hand.

"My explanation is finished," he said softly, shivering. "I have only one last request for you, before you leave: would you please..." He clutched her hand imploringly, delicately, that held the ring with his trembling hands, "come back to me, just once, even if it is not about the little girl, but please, return to me, visit me, and sing to me... just once... it's all I ask... please?"

Christine nodded earnestly, with tears in her eyes from the deep pity she felt for him. She slowly extended her free arm and put her hand on his cheek for a brief moment. The action shocked Erik, and he, startled, let go of her hands. She looked into his eyes, which looked into hers; his eyes burned with love. The hunger in them frightened her, and she began to have second thoughts about her decision. Christine then moved her hand away and headed towards the door.

"Am I free to go now?" Christine asked quietly, her hand on the handle.

Erik looked at her with pained longing and nodded, resting his head on his hands and shuddering. Christine suddenly realized with dread that she had gotten herself into something bigger than she wanted to get involved with.

It was too late to say she would not come back, though. She lowered her eyes and closed the door behind her, anxieties and wonderings clouding her mind, still clutching the ring in her hand. In the distance, she thought she heard a ghostlike weeping, echoing lightly down the halls of his home...

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A/N: I hope that made up for the long time without an update: you better have liked it, because I worked _really_ hard on it. This is my longest chapter yet (new record!). Read and review, and don't forget to check my profile for the contest—I'm going to put it in bold under my 'for my readers' section so you won't miss it.


	7. Inner Conflicts

**A/N:** See my profile for more... otherwise, you would have died of boredom reading it.

Also, forget everything you knew about Oliver Gauntwood's personality...I plan on editing chapters 1-3, so I'll clarify his character there later. Until then, you have this chapter to help clear up some of his character. Suggestions are welcome.

Sorry for the lame chapter title. I had a cool one, but it no longer fit once I revised it.

And also, sorry for not having updated sooner. After posting chapter 6, I felt, "Woo! Chapter 7 is going to be a piece of cake!" and then it wasn't as easy as I thought... Sorry!

**Disclaime****r: **You all know the story: everything belongs to Gaston Leroux, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, I guess... Save Olivia, Frances, Mrs. Chambers, and Oliver.

**Chapter 7**

**Inner Conflicts**

Oliver Gauntwood was pacing the floor of his common room, where he and Christine had had the conversation about Erik a while ago. Olivia was lazily holding a book and watching her brother with glazed and impatient eyes.

She was becoming annoyed at her brother's peculiar behavior. He had been pacing back and forth for a long while now, disrupting the flow of the only source of light in the room, the fireplace. For the first few minutes, she had tolerated it, but no longer could she handle the inconstant flicker of light across the page of her book.

He paused for a brief moment with a brow furrowed in thought. Olivia looked hopefully at him for a moment, as though he might quit the room and leave her undisturbed in her reading endeavors, but her hopes failed when he shook his head and continued pacing, mumbling to himself every now and then. She couldn't take it any longer.

She snapped her book loudly shut, which shocked him back into reality.

"Dear brother," Olivia said, smiling with obvious irritation explicit in her features, "what is bothering you? Whatever it is, it is certainly bothering me."

"Don't worry about it, Olivia," he dismissed, pacing again but more quickly. "My mind is absorbed in things."

"Things," she repeated flatly, a hint of skepticism gracing her tone as his shadow passed over her again. Her eyes gloweringly followed him as he paced.

"Yes," he snapped. "_Things_."

"I see. And what, dear brother, are these 'things' that cause you so much grief?"

"Well... it's... it's..." he sighed. "I am worried about Christine, that's all."

"Oh? Again?" A wicked smile began to creep across her face.

"She's not herself," he said, disturbed and frowning at her. "If you only got to know her, you'd be worried as well. She's quite depressed. She haunts the rooms upstairs in her mansions alone, and will speak to hardly anyone. She's just not the same since she returned."

Oliver knew this because he had been staying at Christine's estate when she returned. He had only just come home today, nearly two weeks after. While he was gone, Olivia had been enjoying several days of comfort and solitude by the fire which now, it seemed, were over since Oliver came home.

Olivia shrugged lightly. "I always thought she was a tad melancholy."

"A _tad_?!" he marveled, thoroughly disrupted in his pacing. "My dear Olivia, do you know how happy that girl used to be?"

"I was twelve when I first met her, I believe. I do not truly remember because at the time I did not care."

"And you still do not care about anything," he replied harshly and bitterly.

Olivia flashed a briefly angry look at him, which became absorbed into her naturally apathetic features; however, the tone of repressed anger lingered in her voice.

"Well," she stated with a little more sting, "you're certainly odd for telling _me_ I don't care. You seem to feel unusuallypassionate about Christine's well-being. If I didn't know any better, I'd say _you_ were the one not acting yourself."

Oliver turned to her suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?"

She smiled slightly, a most vexing action to Oliver.

"Oh, nothing," she replied with cold nonchalance. She looked down and opened her book, but glanced back up at her brother with a smug look beginning to grace her features.

Oliver was beginning to turn red. "What were you implying, you miserable--"

"Now, there is no need for names, brother," she said crossly. "And nothing is implied. If you don't _know_, then I'm mistaken. But," she said, closing her book again and putting it resolutely on her lap, "never have I known you to be so absorbed in just _one woman_. You seem to usually just throw _all_ women off as flippancies, trifles, objects of pleasure. Sure, perhaps you _may_ develop feelings for a select few of them, but you never really _care_. You only love the adrenaline of a possible 'victory' and the pride that follows after attaining one, just like most men, it seems. I've seen you in enough love affairs to know this is the case, so don't call _me_ unfeeling. Yet, as of late, Christine seems to be the _only_ _thing_ on your mind, and I think you're going in over your head."

"Are you saying that I am _in love_ with Christine?" he asked heatedly, growing more crimson with each second.

Olivia seemed slightly surprised that Oliver did not counter what she had accused him of, which only made her enjoy provoking her brother all the more.

"Maybe," she said coldly, staring haughtily into his eyes. "Then again, you've never loved _anyone_. Either way, she'll never love you back."

"Why you little—listen, you," he menaced, leaning threateningly over her, "who are you to say that I don't love? And who says Christine does not love me? Perhaps she does."

Olivia snorted. "So, you admit it?" --She didn't wait for him to respond--"Well, don't make me laugh. She was most _certainly_ trying to get you to fall in love with _Meg_ the last time she graced us with her presence."

"_Meg_? No, she was—she was _not_! Meg's a nice girl, yes, and very... flexible...she was eager to demonstrate--"

"I don't need the details," Olivia said, shuddering, becoming a little repulsed. Though she was a gossip, she never liked nor wanted to know _all_ the details of her brother's affairs.

"—her dance moves for me for a new opera. It was not anything like _that_, Olivia. What sort of man do you think I am? ...Never mind, I already know, and I will just say you are an ignorant fool for a sister of mine if you truly think that of me."

"Then why didn't you counter me sooner?"

"Will you stop being such a brat for just one moment?"

Olivia became very indignant, but kept quiet and cool.

"Now, as we were saying, certainly, Christine was not... she was...not..." Oliver said, more to himself, frowning. "Well, now that I think of it, I suppose you're right."

"Yes, I am," Olivia said, highly vexed, but slightly reveling in her small triumph. "For someone as 'experienced' as you--"

"Why do you think I am so 'experienced'?"

"Come now, whenever we go anywhere, especially to the opera, you're always caught talking to some girl, and it's never the same one. You're ridiculous."

He frowned, quite heated.

"Well, I--"

"--But anyway, I cannot believe you were so _blind_! It was _quite_ obvious. Why do you think she kept recommending her? You don't think all those times you ran into Meg over here, or at the opera, were just mere _coincidence, _do you?"

Oliver looked into her haughty but cold eyes and frowned further.

"Besides, dearest Oliver, you stand no chance of earning the favor of Christine."

"Oh?" he growled. "What do you know? You don't even know her!"

"It's so plain, Oliver," she said, standing, leaving her book on the chair. Oliver, though greatly frustrated, moved aside for her. "You are not Raoul, and you can never hope to be... he was kind and devoted, a gentleman, from what I recall. He was no Don Juan."

"_I am no Don Juan_!" he denied furiously. "And how am I not like Raoul in those regards? Who's to say she won't love me?"

"Will you be quiet!" Olivia shouted, vexed. "Sometimes, you are such an idiot. Do you think honestly that anyone could ever replace Raoul in her heart? She is still faithfully going to the cemetery to visit his grave very week, is she not? His memory still burns in her mind, in her heart. You, apparently have never known enough grief to realize that she is still mourning over him, which may be _why_ she is so depressed, as you are supposedly anxious of." She shook her head incredulously. "I can hardly believe you didn't figure this out on your own."

"I knew she was in mourning!" Oliver cried, exasperated. "I'm not inhuman. I've known my fair share of grief, especially when our parents died...and most of the rest of my grief has been from you since the day you were entrusted into my care."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "Fine. The point is that for one, you cannot hope to become Christine's new lover because it is too soon after her husband's death. She _loved_ him... and you've never loved anyone, ever."

"_I've loved_!" he bellowed.

"Really now? What _is_ love, then?"

Oliver paused and frowned, flustered. "That's the stupidest question I've ever been asked! Come now, you know what love is! Don't play these childish games with me."

Olivia only continued to look at him coldly. Oliver rolled his eyes and groaned.

"Fine. Love is... it's that feeling you get... when... it's when two people share... come now, what is this? I don't need to play these childish games of yours! And I'm so sure _you_ know what love is."

"I only know it's more than what _you_ think," Olivia replied, her anger no longer being hidden in her features. "Anyway, you'll never replace Raoul, no matter how gentlemanly you may _act_, for you are no gentleman yourself, _and_ you can't even _love_ properly—you can't even define the word!"

"Why must you be so childish? _I don't need this_!" he repeated, beginning to storm off.

"Don't be so idiotic!" Olivia groaned, chasing after him.

"Look," she said, catching up to his quick stride, and rolling her eyes in exasperation, "I'm sorry. I admit I was only saying most of those things to annoy you. But sincerely, if you _really_ wanted to earn Christine's love, I _can_ help you, though I can hardly believe I'll see the day when _you'll_ ask _me_ for help in such affairs, being _completely_ knowledgeable and unconquerable in your own stupidity. Just think on it, since you're not going to even pause to speak with me again, at least, not until tomorrow when we go to the opera—we are going to the opera tomorrow, correct?"

Oliver stopped for a moment, inhaled and exhaled deeply, then turned to face her. "Yes," he said, restrained, "We are going to the opera tomorrow. Andre and Firmin want to discuss planning and such for the Masquerade Ball--"

"I know the details; I'm not stupid."

Olivia stood in a moment of hesitation, but then sighed huffily and gave her brother a flustered kiss on the cheek.

"I'm going to bed. Good-night."

She then whisked away. He watched her go and said nothing further, trying to calm himself down but with small success.

Suddenly, he saw her coming back.

"I was not kidding, though, about the Don Juan part. You really are _quite_ a flirt."

Then she disappeared again. He hated how she seemed not to be like other sisters, or even other girls, who would only tease with playful banter and blushed modestly in shame when they said something cruel.

Yet, he continued to brood in his anger, mostly because inwardly he knew that in some ways, she was absolutely right.

---

Christine tossed and turned in restless sleep. She had been home for a little over a week or two now. She could hardly believe it. It seemed that time passed too quickly to be true—after all, since she had returned, her thoughts barely ever left Erik.

"_...if you would...come back and see your poor Erik?"_

"Poor Erik!" she whispered wretchedly, turning over again, with the tears that never seemed to cease as of late.

What she truly felt was not only pity for Erik, but also repentance for having agreed to him. She was deathly afraid of him. She, after all, was no fool—she knew what Erik would do to gain her love, and how resolute he was in obtaining it. If she returned to him as she promised, to what extent would his love—rather, his obsession—be kindled for her? What unknown terror might he commit? When would her fears end?

_Only when he's dead,_ Christine thought with a chilling shudder.

"_... but please, feel free to think of me as a friend... as your poor Erik...your greatest friend..."_

"_Oh, Erik_!" she cried miserably.

She tossed herself into a position that was neither more nor less comfortable as she began to sob into her pillow. She also was plagued with the notion that she did not want him dead—her pity for him prevented her from being so cruel-hearted. How could she want him dead? He had, after all, inspired her voice. Though he was no saint, he was still her angel of music... and he had let her marry Raoul. He almost died because she had refused his love. She was his existence...and, in a way, he was hers.

This awful cycle had been in place ever since she returned, and Christine was becoming more and more desperate to break it. Since she returned, she had thought of suicide every now and then, but shuddered to think further on it—she was a mother, not to mention she was bearing another child. Besides, she knew she was surrounded by people who loved her, and she also felt that it was a cowardly decision.

However, Christine was feeling an extreme disconnect with those she previously took joy in being with. She had not told a soul what happened down below the opera house fully, not even Mrs. Chambers or Meg, her confidantes. Oliver Gauntwood also received the cold shoulder, no matter how hard he had tried to improve Christine's mood with flattery for the past two weeks. She was completely indifferent to the world and its cares, having been devoured by her own worries. She was coming to see that one thing Erik said was true:

"_...You were not alone, and in that household, you are never alone..."_

"Never alone..." she said to herself a little more rationally while turning over again. "...and yet, I'm always alone," she added, lightly shocked by the profundity of the statement. Though constantly surrounded, she felt that she was all alone.

She sighed a most emptying sigh. She knew it would be pointless to remain in bed, for she was not going to sleep.

She got out of bed and headed to the window, laying her hand softly on the windowpane. For the first time in days, it was not snowing. She only saw an unblemished layer of snow glittering ghostly blue in the moonlight. She sighed again, which seemed to shake her being.

"_I can't escape from him, and never will_," she whispered with an intense, inward horror. The stillness of the night around her reminded her of the stillness in the darkness where he dwelled. Life, time itself, seemed to stand still in that strange place below the opera, still a place of her nightmares.

She suddenly felt something cold in her hand. She looked down in surprise to see that she was holding the ring again. There was something different, something odd about this ring than what she remembered: when Raoul had given it to her, it was just a ring. Now, it almost seemed like it was a part of her. When she put it on, it fit so perfectly, she didn't feel it. The ring also possessed a certain unearthly golden color that it didn't have before. What was oddest was the fact that she always thought she left it on her dresser, yet it somehow managed to be in her hand. It seemed, if it was possible, that the ring followed her where she went. The thought terrified her. Yet...

She looked out the window at the moon. Was she going to live her life in fear and depression? Certainly, Erik was just a man... a man that seemed immortal and was certainly a madman, yes, but she knew the truth behind his mask. She recalled his failing health with clarity. He had almost died a few years ago. He had returned, yes, but it seemed that he had not much longer to live. That thought also filled her soul with terror, grief, and yet, some peace and joy. If Erik was gone, she would have nothing to fear. Nothing...

But that was another rub. Erik added a whole other dimension of being to her world. She, though horrified at the thought of returning to his black, black world, very deep within found almost a certain thrill in the idea. Yes; she might have even loved the idea secretly. Perhaps she even loved him. But it was too dark a love. It was too much, too intense for Christine. Besides, deeper within herself, Christine was not a child of darkness, but one committed to the light.

She held the ring up to the moonlight. The ring seemed to shine of its own accord in a most dark and lovely manner, enhanced by the light of the moon. She wondered why she feared this little ring. What would the harm be of wearing it? Who would ask about it? Wouldn't all around her just assume it was the ring she had worn for her wedding to Raoul? He did, after all, buy another one similar to this one after she had given it to Erik...

She paused. Why had she given the ring to Erik, anyway?

Out of pity, she decided. It was out of pity. She was leaving him without a memory of her, without a trace, and as a last act of mercy, she had given him the ring. In a way, she now thought, she had absentmindedly given him a piece of herself.

She looked at the moon outside once more and sighed. She still wanted freedom. Raoul, her only freedom, was gone. Being, however, a strong believer that her father's spirit did in fact come sometimes to her at night, she did not think that Raoul was completely gone. Hence, as was the typical end of her cycle, she resolved to go and visit the graveyard again to try and find comfort there. However, she knew she could not dwell among the dead, nor could she run away from her problems forever. She paused as she began to dress. She would have to make a resolution to herself tonight about whether she would continue in this cycle, or if she would finally break free of it.

She looked at the ring which she now had on her finger, which gleamed in the dark. She suddenly became solemn and resolute, and a small flame of courage ignited in her once more.

She would reveal the events that occurred below the opera to Mrs. Chambers first thing in the morning. She had been concealing them for two weeks too long. She knew she could not handle this alone as she thought she could.

She continued to dress. She knew that this was what she would have to do, especially since the holiday of Christmas was coming, and that dreadful question that she had been pushing aside throughout the month of November would have to be answered: would she be having her annual Christmas party, or not? She still didn't know, and right now, she didn't particularly care.

She finished dressing and looked out the window once more and shivered.

It was going to be a long and cold night, hopefully the last one she would tread in darkness for.

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**A/N:** I hope this chapter seemed interesting...now you know Oliver's feelings (somewhat) towards Christine... I'll go into it more later. If this was horrible, tell me what I can fix. It was more of a transitory chapter than anything, but the next chapter is going to be at the opera... I'm planning for someone to die in either chapter 9 or 10 (try to guess who, but I'll never tell!...well, I will when I write it, obviously), and perhaps the little girl I mentioned before will be found soonish... and next chapter, I announce the winner of the title contest! See my profile for details, if you forgot or wish to enter.


	8. Mysterious Score & Letters From A Ghost

**A/N**: As I said before, I plan to edit my story, especially the first three chapters. Chapter 6 will remain as is, except for maybe one sentence about Daroga (I mean, I said he'd be gone a week to Persia—um, in those days, I don't think that they had airplanes that provided for such a short trip. I want him back soon, though, so... uh... that will be fixed), and I MUST fix chapter 7 with Christine and her son (thank you, **flamethrowerqueen**!). You may be asking, "What about it? You didn't say anything." Exactly. I had meant to, but when I edited it... I left it out. At least, there'll be some. Next chapter, you'll see more.

Anyway, you probably don't care about that right now; you just want to know who won the contest. Well... Ha! You have to wait 'til the end of this chapter to find out!!! GWAHAHAHAAHAHA!!!

Hey, for those of you who've read Leroux: which of the two managers was the music expert? I feel it is Firmin... and isn't he also the one who was more quick-tempered? I can't remember. I'll look it up, but if I mess it up, tell me.

**Disclaimer:** I pretty much am a nobody who is writing about Phantom. I don't own it. Alas.

**Chapter 8**

**The Mysterious Score and Letters from a Ghost**

"And you say that there's no author?"

"Absolutely none!"

Olivia yawned, leaning against a wall of the stage. Oliver briefly flashed his eyes at her. She rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, walking off perhaps to find Carlotta.

Oliver turned his attention back to the thick and neatly bound score.

"Are you sure? Not even initials?"

"We've checked everywhere, monsieur! There is nothing!"

"You may inspect it yourself, if you don't believe us," Firmin said, offering Oliver the score plainly. Oliver snatched up the score quickly and began to scour the pages.

Once he finally gave up looking for any name, any initials, which was several minutes later (and he had not finished even going through the entire score), he returned the score back to Firmin. He found no answers, but he did develop a slight headache.

"You can't possibly be right," Oliver sighed, "but I have no patience to sort through the whole thing. I have other things to do today besides—I must meet with the caterers for the Masquerade, also."

"We've looked through the entire score several times since it appeared in our office late last night!" Firmin cried. "There is no name, no signature, no initials—_nothing_! We even had some of our other staff look through it. There is nothing!"

"Perhaps it is missing a page or so," Oliver suggested with a frown, his headache increasing in intensity.

Firmin looked at him incredulously. "Monsieur, I sincerely doubt this manuscript is missing _anything_. Half of the score is full of _very_ specific performance notes, and it is _very_ neatly bound. The author certainly is a _particular_ fellow, and thus I doubt he would have forgotten his name in the process of making the score."

Oliver frowned, pondering to himself aloud. "Who would write an opera so detail-oriented and not even sign it?" Oliver sighed heavily. "Well, what does it matter who wrote it? One opera is as good as the next. So, do you plan on performing it?"

Andre and Firmin looked at each other too knowingly, but also incredulously. Andre sighed, not really wanting to be the one to bring up the possibility that had only been communicated in silent looks since last night.

"It does matter who wrote the score, Mr. Gauntwood," Andre began hesitantly. Firmin sighed and began to massage his temples. "Do you read music, Mr. Gauntwood?"

"No, I must confess I have absolutely no musical skill," he sighed. "I only have a love of the arts."

"Well," Andre said, taking the manuscript carefully from Firmin, "if you could, you would know that a musical genius composed this score."

"Well, aren't all who compose geniuses in a way?" Oliver commented, implying that Andre's insight was not helping.

"Oh, well, in a way, yes," Andre replied reluctantly, "but I doubt even Mozart could have written as something as perfect as this. There is only one I know of that can write so brilliant a score..."

"I was afraid this was where you were going," Firmin sighed, taking back the score from Andre. "I have to agree with you, Andre... this score is quite remarkable. What do you think this may mean?"

"He had free reign over this theatre four years ago..."

"Are you suggesting that he wants that very same thing again?"

"Perhaps."

Firmin paused blankly, thinking of the ramifications of that idea.

"Oh dear," he said, beginning to pace. Oliver frowned, perplexed.

"I'm afraid I don't know of whom you speak of," he said.

"Well, you should..." Andre turned to Firmin. "As much as I hate to admit this, I believe he has returned."

Firmin looked despairingly at Andre. "No, please, let's not say that yet. Perhaps Mr. Gauntwood is right; maybe there is a name somewhere. We just haven't looked thoroughly enough."

"We were up until five in the morning!" Andre cried. "As much as I hope to God that it is not so, all the evidence points in that direction. Oh, God," he said miserably, beginning to fidget with his hands.

"Who are you gentlemen speaking of?" Oliver demanded, becoming slightly irritable at the suspended answer.

"Oh, don't be so daft, Mr. Gauntwood!" Andre replied irritably. "It is only the Opera Ghost!"

Oliver's features suddenly dawned with the revelation. "You mean to say, the Phantom of the Opera?"

"Yes!" the two managers yelled simultaneously.

"Christine's angel of music?"

The managers frowned.

"Yes," said a woman's voice behind them. They all turned to see Madame Giry. "The very same."

"You know, I've always wondered how you know so much," Andre said with narrowed eyes.

Madame Giry stiffly headed over to the managers, not moved in the least by his suspicion.

"I found this note in Box 5," she said, handing over an envelope with a red skull as a seal on the back.

Andre and Firmin looked at each other in horror, their faces paling simultaneously.

"It _is_ the Opera Ghost," moaned Andre.

"And I thought that that fiasco had ended permanently, and four years ago!" Firmin moaned. "I believe this, combined with the lack of sleep I had last night, is only giving me a migraine."

Andre slowly began to break the seal, but Firmin stopped him.

"Why torment ourselves now? We can pretend we never got the letter."

"Do you really think that will work in the long run, monsieur Firmin?" Madame Giry coldly asked.

Oliver sighed in exasperation.

"Why don't you just open it? Maybe it's not from this so-called ghost."

No one moved quickly enough, so Oliver snatched the letter away and opened it himself. He read it, but frowned.

"I don't understand what this fellow means by this letter," he said.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, read it to us!" Firmin bellowed, massaging his forehead. He was still rather pale.

"Fine," Oliver said, not truly understanding the horror. Though he had heard the story of Christine's kidnapping, he had not truly known the full extent of the calamity the Opera Ghost had unleashed on the theatre. He had, true enough, also been the patron of the theatre for six months or so now, but since everyone was convinced the Opera Ghost was gone, no one had bothered to inform Oliver on what details he had missed.

"Well," Oliver began, "on the envelope, it has instructions to Madame Giry to deliver this to you, messieurs, and then all the letter says is:

'_My dear managers, _

_Be sure to follow my instructions, and it will go well with you. _

_If not, then be sure that there will be war between us. I don't think we need to go through that again, do we? If we must, then disregard this letter and others to come... but be not surprised if accidents begin to happen once more should you decide to do so._

_I see you have found the score of my latest work._

_For the performance, I must have my seat in Box 5 empty for me again... though I have been sitting in on performances as of late, and it seems that the box now stays empty for no reason whatsoever. You theatre folk are always so superstitious. _

_I also noticed, with some humor, that the seats beneath the chandelier are not always full. _

_I also desire my salary—don't think you can dodge paying it again, messieurs! I have not asked for it for several years, but be assured, I still run this theatre. I did find your attempt at deceiving me with that safety pin trick amusing several years ago, but I received my salary all the same. _

_Your obedient servant, _

_O.G_.'

Now, who is masquerading as me? I did not write this note, yet my initials are on it."

"You idiot!" cursed Firmin. "O.G. means '_Opera Ghost'_. Oh, Andre, I think I need to sit down...this is not at all helping with my nerves..."

Andre only stood in shock. They had not heard from the Opera Ghost in four years, and now he was back. All their suspicions and fears had only been confirmed.

"Is this man immortal?" Andre marveled in dread.

"I still don't understand what this all means," Oliver said, impatience gnawing at him while his own headache grew worse. "I only know this means we have the composer's initials. Now, if someone will please stop babbling long enough to explain to me what is going on...?"

"Aren't you a relative to the Chagnys? Haven't _they_ told you?"

"Raoul told me long ago of an incident with the Phantom of the Opera, which involved him risking his life to save Christine, and Christine spoke of it also to me once. I thought this was some random madman who was a regular in the opera crowd."

"Goodness, no!" Andre cried. "My goodness, you know _nothing_. Hasn't anyone _told_ you?"

"Why don't you ask Christine, monsieur?" Madame Giry suggested.

"I would, but Christine... is not in the best state of mind right now. I don't think reminding her of the incident would be best. I only heard this Ghost kidnapped her, and Raoul saved her from him. Isn't this 'Ghost' merely a man?"

"Monsieur," Madame Giry stated, a look of light horror embracing her features. "It is not wise to speak of him, especially here. Yes, he is a man, but if you wish to speak of him, you must speak to Christine. There is a danger in having a loose tongue around this theatre."

"Yes, and we don't want any more danger!" Firmin said, completely flustered at the combination of events. "We want no more trouble with this Ghost!"

"No more accidents!" Andre added with a gasp.

"He mentioned 'accidents' in this letter," Oliver said, looking over the letter again.

"Madame, why don't you explain it to him?" Firmin suggested, though it seemed much more like an order, which it was. "Come, Andre. Let's collect his desired sum. Did he say how much, Mr. Gauntwood?"

"The same as last," she replied in his stead. The two managers gravely and slowly began to head to their office. "And I will hold my tongue. I've told you, a loose tongue is a dangerous thing to have, especially in this case."

"Oh, what good are you," he scowled. "Fine. I will speak to Christine on this matter, since none of you are mentally capable of providing any helpful answer, though I must say I do not wish to bring up such painful memories for her. Now, if you have nothing more to discuss with me, I must be elsewhere. Could someone find my sister? Oh, dear..." he said, fumbling with his gloves, "what a strange day!"

---

"Yes," said Erik, his eyes glowing in madness as he watched the scene below, "indeed, Oliver, it _is_ a strange day! And it is about to get stranger!"

Erik turned around and faced the other side of the rafter. A wicked smile curled on his face. "I think I've just found your sister, Oliver. She ought to learn a lesson in prudence from Madame Giry; if she doesn't learn to hold her tongue, she may find a Punjab Lasso to be her teacher instead!"

---

Olivia was not a random target. Ever since she came to the opera, she had only been aggravating Erik, especially since there was talk of her becoming a prima donna one day soon, and in fact, the process was in the works. Olivia was even going to a rehearsal later today to try out for the lead in the new opera, titled _Faust's Victory_, but as the reader found out earlier, was not signed. But that was not the reason why she annoyed Erik so. It was the fact that she was a gossip, and did not know when to stop; nay, it was not even the fact that she was a gossip that irritated Erik to the point where he would be plotting her murder.

Surely, she did talk about Carlotta almost all the time when she was there. She would talk to the stagehands, the dancers, the ballet rats, almost anyone who would pause and listen (but she never understood why they said nothing in return, some of them even darting their eyes fearfully to the rafters every now and then—as Erik mentioned in his note, they were rather superstitious). While she excessively praised Carlotta, she had a way of insulting Christine, and these insults tended to be rather severe and cruel.

Not only this, but she had already told some people that Oliver was in love with Christine—something that provoked Erik deeply enough as it was—but she also went further and began to list all of Christine's 'flaws' and all the reasons why she did not want such a pairing, again, insulting her in every way possible, from her birth to how she was married, even suggesting that she was not pure.

She told someone once, Erik remembered, that she planned with all her might to stop such a union. Erik wouldn't have minded this idea, if only Olivia's main reason had not been because of Christine's apparent 'common' status, despite the fact that she had a higher class now since she had married a viscount.

Though Erik had the opportunity to let his Punjab Lasso go to work now, he was not going to do it now. Instead, he was going to give a warning, if only because Olivia was Christine's relation.

Ever since Christine had left him, he had neither slept nor ate, but had composed day in and day out, dwelling obsessively on Christine and Christine alone, pausing only to accept medicine that Madame Giry administered daily, and even then he was still fixated on Christine. The intensity of his devotion to her almost made him fear her, perhaps made him fear even himself, but also only made him desire her even more. He kept entertaining the thought that she would be coming to him soon, _very_ soon, and was growing steadily wounded in his heart that she had not come already; even worse was the torturing and bitter thought that she might not come at all. She had, after all, lied to him and betrayed him in the past. He was rendered almost helpless at the thought of her; _almost_. He was coming to the point where if she did not return soon, he might do something drastic. He was trying still not to interfere with Christine's life as much as possible, since he had promised her that he would be 'her greatest friend,' her 'poor Erik'. It was killing him inside.

He saw Olivia down below and his heart filled with rage. He longed to let his Punjab go about its work, but in memory of Christine, he did not do it. If he murdered one of her closest relations, she might never come back to him. The thought tore him up inside.

So, limply but quickly, disgusted at his display of mercy for so vile a woman, he let the white envelope fall to Olivia's feet, which floated ever so gracefully down.

---

Olivia saw the white envelope falling. When she looked up, she saw a shape in the shadows. Not ever having really paid attention to the stories of the Opera Ghost, she did not think much of it and assumed it was only a stagehand.

She picked up the envelope and found it addressed to her brother. She frowned, wondering if it had been Oliver up in the rafters, since it was his letter, but that made no sense. She frowned as she tried to figure out the mystery, but she was not truly interested with who had dropped the letter, but rather what was _in_ the letter.

She paused for a moment, furtively looking around her to see if anyone was watching. Since she seemed to be alone, she carefully broke the gothic seal and hastily read.

The contents made her blood drain. Her body began shaking violently.

"Oliver," she whispered in terror. "_OLIVER_!!!" she screamed, and she ran towards the stage.

---

Having heard her sister's cry, he quickly whisked around and saw her tearing across the stage to him, her face paler than Andre's or Firmin's.

"There you are! We're leaving, so--"

"Oliver, I don't know who your 'friend' is, but he certainly is no friend of mine!" she poured out in terror, shaking all over.

Oliver frowned in bewilderment, his headache now being a full-out migraine. "What? Who is this 'friend'? I don't know what you're--"

"I don't know who, but I just found this letter addressed to you, and when I read it--"

"You read my mail? _Again_?! How many times--"

"_Never mind that now_!" she shrieked, throwing the letter to him, which fell at his feet. "_Just read it_!"

Oliver picked up the letter and went over to her, even more confused, his head feeling heavy and dull with pain. "Calm down now. It's not good to get yourself so worked up."

"'_So worked up'_?! Read the letter, _then_ tell me whether I can be 'worked up' or not!"

Olivia swayed violently. Oliver suddenly realized how deeply this letter had disturbed her.

"Olivia, I'll read the letter, but you must sit... you, stagehand! Bring this lady some water!... now, you must calm down. _Calm down._ If you don't, I'm afraid you'll faint! Please, Olivia--"

Olivia burst into tears, shivering and shaking all over. Oliver had never seen his sister so distraught before.

"Will you just read the letter, monsieur!" Andre cried. The managers had stopped dead in their tracks at the sound of Olivia's fit.

"I'm getting there!" Oliver yelled in severe irritation. "It says:

'_Dear Mr. Gauntwood, _

_You would do best to restrain your sister's impudent tongue if you love her at all. I'm afraid if you don't, she may find herself in a predicament that would be _quite_ harmful to her health. _

_And if the little snoop is reading this letter now, then let her know that she narrowly escaped that fate today only _because_ of Christine, so she ought to go to her and kiss her feet when she sees her again, the ungrateful wretch! _

_Your friend, _

_P.T.O.'_"

Oliver frowned, his indignation mounting. "The monster! Who does he think he is? Who _is_ this? 'P.T.O'?"

"It is another name for the Opera Ghost, monsieur," Madame Giry quietly replied, her face white.

"Opera Ghost," he scoffed, folding the letter up and kneeling to attempt to comfort his weeping sister. "This 'ghost' has a lot of nerve. It is one thing to say that a person is flawed; it is a completely different nature to threaten a person's life! Is this some sort of cruel prank?"

"The Opera Ghost does not bluff, sir," Madame Giry said gravely, fear cascading in her eyes. "Olivia, you must cease talking about Christine. Whatever you have said, take it all back. And don't roam around here alone again."

"I am allowed to say whatever I please!" she screamed, on the verge of fainting.

"I beg you, please, hold your tongue! The Opera Ghost does not tolerate much. I am sure that if you were not a relative to Christine, you would be dead by now."

Olivia became quiet with fear and severely trembled.

"Who are you to say that?" Oliver snapped angrily. "I have to agree with Andre. You know a little too much for my tastes."

"Please, monsieur, I beg you, don't question what I know," she begged.

A stagehand came with water for Olivia, who, now very sober from the thought that she might be dead right now, blankly accepted it, still shivering.

"I don't think you have a right to withhold that information from me," Oliver said through clenched teeth. "He just threatened my sister's life."

"I will say nothing!" Madame Giry cried. "I only insist that she does the same."

"If you say nothing, that only makes you his accomplice!"

Olivia gasped and began to sob again.

"Monsieur, believe me, I remain silent for her best interests. Make sure she says nothing out of line. If you so desire any explanation, I beg you, speak to Christine!"

"Wait a moment!" Oliver roared, grabbing Madame Giry by the arm. She tried to pull away with all her might. "I already told you, I don't want to drag Christine into this!"

"Monsieur, it is too late for that! Let me go, I beg you, there is nothing I can say!"

"What do you mean, 'it is too late'? Tell me!"

"Monsieur, I'll never tell! It is not my place, not my business!"

"_TELL ME_!!!"

"Never!" Madame Giry cried, finally breaking free of his grasp and scurrying away.

Oliver was too bewildered and angry to take this anymore. He faced the managers.

"Is this some sort of joke? It is not funny, and my sister and I will not be treated in this way! I'm not so sure if I want to support this madhouse anymore," Oliver said, looking at the managers. "I don't want in on this joke! It's not funny to threaten someone's life! You all have a twisted sense of humor that I don't appreciate, especially since you're only going to give him his way! Have you no backbone, no shame? No wonder why Christine was so scarred! What happened to her here?"

"Mr. Gauntwood," Andre said quietly, "I hate to say this, lest you decide to walk out on us, but only Christine could fully tell you."

Oliver glared at Andre impatiently. He then sighed.

"Fine," he spat rather quietly. "I will speak with her, as much as I detest the thought of making her even more depressed. If it was not for the fact that I believe I might regret making so rash a decision, and the fact that you are all cowards, I would have stopped supporting this nuthouse today. I want to know the meaning of this letter, and I will not stop coming here until I understand fully its origins and who wrote it!"

He then turned to his sister and helped her to her feet. She was lightly sobbing now.

"Come, Olivia," Oliver said, still very cold and professional but with a softened tone for her, "we must go speak to the caterers now, if we even still wish to have a Masquerade."

Olivia glided silently to Oliver's side. With not another word, Oliver tipped his hat and the two siblings left.

Andre and Firmin looked at each other and groaned.

"I do believe my headache grew even worse," Firmin said, letting his heavy head fall into his hands.

Andre sat, stunned, for several moments. He finally replied, "I think what we need, monsieur Firmin, is a drink."

"No, Andre," Firmin corrected, "what we need is a _vacation_."

The two managers helped each other to their feet, for they had sat down on a flight of stairs, and then proceeded to head to their office, not to be disturbed for _anything_, no matter how grave, for the rest of the day. Needless to say, auditions for _Faust's Victory _were temporarily postponed for at least another week.

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**A/N: **Ok, no Christine this chapter, but next... looks like things are going to forming a little differently than what I expected. There will be some interaction between Christine and her son, and then Oliver gets thrown in with Olivia... and then I'll add in something else.

Ok, but now the winner of the title contest is...**Phemale**! Congrats! I liked "Words Unspoken" and "A Last Requiem" best, and I think "**_Words Unspoken_**" is the winning title. The other titles submitted by **KyrieofAccender, Luckii.Jinx, **and** phantom-jedi1 **were also pretty good (thanks for entering!). If you have never read anything by these four, I whole-heartedly urge you to go there now (after you review, of course)! They're excellent.

I won't change the title yet; not until after I upload chapter 9. Then you all who are following this story have a chance to adjust to the new title. As I also said in the contest rules, you get to be a minor character in this story, but you'll be important, too. When you review, **Phemale**, just tell me briefly what sort of personality you want to have and a name.


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